Chapter 31

Reprisals

T he sunrise was a beaut, and I gazed in awe at the first glimpse of light as it flooded the land around us during the drive back to camp. The moody sky was awash with colour with a rich palette of pink, purple, and red. ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning,’ I muttered. The driver, Jean, one of Gaspard’s men, braked softly, his eyes fixed on the farm up ahead on the left, where thick, black smoke drifted from a barn. I flicked a gaze at him, a middle-aged man of maybe thirty-five, a perplexed look etched on his sun-bronzed face.

He squeezed the brake, and the car slowed to a halt. We clambered out, and I peered all around, pushed my sunglasses up onto my head, my hand poised on my revolver. There was no one about, no vehicles, but the flash of a blue sweater on the ground caught my eye. Cautiously, I picked my way through the yard, stepping around discarded pieces of furniture, broken china, and other ephemera, the buzzing of flies growing louder. Their tiny black bodies frantic, swarming over the blue sweater on the body of a little boy, the wind tugging at his brown, curly hair. A little girl lay curled at his side. A single bullet hole through their foreheads, the wound clean, scarlet. Nearby lay the bodies of a man and a woman, both dead. ‘Do you know them?’

‘Oui. Reprisals. They are happening more and more,’ Jean spat in a gruff voice as he traipsed back to the car.

I shook my head. ‘Bastards!’ A little further along, we passed through a village, eerily silent. The Germans had been busy there too. The bodies of seven men swung to and fro from trees, and a little further along, the still form of a woman tied to a post, her pregnant belly slit open, her baby in a pool of blood, dead at her feet. I had to look twice before looking away, raising a hand to my mouth as my gut lurched violently. How could anyone do that to a woman? Jesus Christ! ‘We should untie her, at least,’ I said.

‘Non. The Germans insist their victims remain there for a length of time. We cannot help her now. Why make things worse?’ He swiped beads of sweat from his brow with his hand. The air was thick and fetid.

He was right. It would make it worse for the locals. The Germans were waging a separate war against the French, making the innocent pay for every German killed or for every attack the Resistance made. Did they have no humanity? How could they do that to innocent children? Rage pounded my ears, raced in my heart, and I clenched my jaw as I wrestled the images from my mind. ‘They’ll get what’s coming to them.’ The words slipped out; an affirmation tainted with bile.

All I knew at that moment was that I hated the Nazis and the only good one, was a dead one.

* * *

The afternoon sun was hot, the air humid. The shade of the trees in our camp brought a mild respite, but my back itched as beads of sweat trickled down the bumps of my spine, my hair damp, clinging to my neck. I took a mouthful of water as I heard a rumble which growled into a black Citro?n, pulling up in a cloud of dust. Instinct drew my eye to my Sten gun, which lay on the ground by my feet, but the rush of maquisards to greet the driver helped me relax.

Henri Tardivat sprung from the car, a wide grin upon his suntanned face, and my heart leapt. He was a wonderful man, so likeable and easy-going. Still unmarried, so a good catch for someone. I smiled to myself and was reminded of my Henri, the smile fading on my lips as the lump swelled in my throat. I swallowed.

‘Bonjour, Tardi. Great to see you.’ We embraced like two old friends. ‘Come on. I’ll get you some coffee before we start.’

‘Is Gaspard still here?’

‘Yes. His men have been trickling in for a couple of days now. Most of them have made it. Reckons he lost around one hundred and fifty.’

‘I hear the Germans lost many more.’

‘Well, with his men here, that means we now have around seven thousand maquisards.’ What a number! ‘Look, Tardi, we need to get it through that thick head of his that he can’t keep all his men together. He’s had a lucky escape this time, and that’s only down to the terrain – it’s tough out here even for the Germans, but that doesn’t mean he’ll get away next time.’

‘I know. We will tell him, but we need to be clever about it.’

Clever indeed. Well, I could do clever. I could do cunning. I could do just about anything, and I would if it meant accomplishing this mission and finding my way back home. So, I drew myself up to my full five feet, five inches, took a deep breath, and assumed my warrior face as I turned and led the way to where Gaspard was camped out with his men. There were things to address, now that I had him here. After Tardi had finished greeting his comrades, and everyone had food and drink, I stood up. ‘There are certain things we need to sort out before we go any further. As you know, London is prepared to meet all costs, for weapons, ammunition, food, and clothing, but you have to agree to follow orders otherwise there will only be chaos, and it jeopardises the other groups.’ I glanced around at the men, their dark, hard eyes upon me, sizing me up. ‘So, no more stealing from your fellow Frenchmen. It doesn’t help our cause; it turns them against you. We want them on our side.’

‘My men take from collaborators,’ Gaspard said. ‘They are not our patriots.’

‘True, but even so, if we can avoid it, then we must. Take all you want from the Germans. We want them to see that we mean business. We must be organised, disciplined, pull together like an army. Trained, equipped, looking the part. Secondly, each group must have planned escape routes from now on. They make the difference between being able to withdraw and re-group elsewhere or being picked off one by one by the German’s machine guns.’

Tardi nodded, Gaspard drew heavily on his cigarette, his eyes narrow as he stared at me, and I was convinced he was going to protest, create another uproar, but he remained tight-lipped. Perhaps the surprise attack and the loss of his men was still too raw. The Allied landings had been rough with many lives lost, but now the soldiers had a foothold and were fighting their way through France, inch by inch, and it was down to us to distract the Germans, cut off their supplies, and eradicate as many of them as possible. It was time, finally, to make a stand.

* * *

London answered us once again as thirty Liberators flew overhead at half-past-eleven that night. Four hundred and fifty containers peppered the sapphire sky. After checking supplies, we took what we needed for the following day and stored the remaining containers in our hiding place. It was almost five o’clock when we reached camp. Coffee was ready and waiting, along with bacon and bread. A feast!

We were all so tired, and there was still so much to do. The men unloaded the trucks and opened the containers one by one. Then, we began the arduous task of dismantling the Sten guns, de-greasing and re-assembling each one. I sipped my coffee beneath the pine trees as dawn’s first light spread out overhead, a crimson and pink wash, and the trees swished and swayed in the breeze. My eyes lowered, and a shadow fell across me.

‘Gertie, have a refill.’ Den passed me a mug of coffee. ‘Looks like you need it.’

‘Thanks.’

He lifted the gun from my lap and finished the job, and I didn’t say a word. My arm felt like lead as I held the cup to my lips. I sat back against a tree trunk, my eyelids lowered, and I didn’t fight it. I breathed, the men’s voices a low hubbub, the crackling fire close by, the first chorus of birdsong among the trees, Henri, a smile curving his mouth just for me. Mon amour.