Chapter 32
Battle
T he days were relentless. We were dealing with the drops, visiting the various Maquis groups in the Auvergne region, assessing their needs, equipping the men. Sleep had become a luxury to be snatched wherever you were, whenever you could. The situation with the Germans and their attack on Gaspard still troubled me, and while the men considered they’d been victorious, I wondered how long before the enemy attacked again.
‘The drop’s on for tonight.’ Den’s sing-song voice. He poured some coffee.
I sighed; my body felt like lead, my head fuzzy. ‘I’m knackered, Den.’
He smiled and kissed the top of my head as he sailed past. ‘You have to be there. They’re dropping a tonne of French francs.’
‘Any signs of Jerry?’
‘Spotted the other side of Chaudes-Aigues.’
Well, they had unfinished business, and that proved they weren’t leaving any time soon. Gaspard’s men had swelled their ranks enormously, and now, the seven thousand-strong groups of Resistance fighters were split into smaller, more manageable groups, each with their own leaders. As I’d told them, it made sense, and they would not be so vulnerable. They were spread out across the plateau above Chaudes-Aigues, within sight of the single road that snaked through the valley and the hills. Men took it in turns on guard duty, patrolling the road, armed with Sten guns, and grenades.
That evening I took ten men, and we drove up to the plateau. Just after midnight, our parachutage arrived courtesy of an armada of fifty Liberator Bombers from the west. When I opened the container filled with money, Den piped up, ‘Let me see.’ His face was a picture. Tight rolls of French francs crammed inside the canister. ‘Ooh, so that’s fifteen million big ones. If only…’
‘You and me both, mate,’ I said. It was late by the time we got back, and I was too exhausted for the bath I’d promised myself. After a nightcap of brandy, I settled for a strip wash, discarded my dirty clothes, and slipped on my pink Parisian silk negligee, feeling more my old self even if it was for a mere few hours. It was four o’clock in the morning as I bedded down with my blanket and satin cushion beneath the pines, the breeze light, a faint rustle from the trees.
* * *
An explosion in the distance dragged me from slumber with a start, just as dawn was breaking. The rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire echoed through the forest chased by another explosion. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, jumped up and pulled on socks, slacks, and a shirt, slipped my feet into boots, forgetting all about the negligee which I hastily tucked into my trousers. Those sleeping woke, jumped up from where they’d slumped, grabbed their weapons, ammunition, and gathered together.
I slipped my pistol into my holster, reached for my Sten and gathered up all the cash. We drove to the plateau, collecting Fournier from his house on the way. Two of our scouts said SS troops had almost encircled us. They had mobile guns, tanks, mortars, the Luftwaffe, and thousands of troops, according to one of the men. We headed to nearby Freydefont, to meet with Gaspard and Hubert. ‘My men will fight to the death,’ Gaspard said.
‘They bloody won’t,’ I said, glaring at him. ‘Den get a message to London and cancel today’s drop. Don’t stop transmitting until you get a response.’
‘Okay, Gertie.’
‘And Den,’ I leaned in close to whisper, ‘Tell them what’s happened and that we hope to escape tonight. Tell them to order Gaspard to leave, or the fool’s going to get every one of those men killed.’
‘Right, leave it to me.’ Den raced back to the car to retrieve his wireless set and found a spot to begin transmitting. Machine-gun fire echoed all around, interrupted by intermittent explosions. The Germans were closing in, making their way towards the plateau. We all agreed that we’d escape that night when darkness fell, all of us, except Gaspard. He was adamant that he and his men would stay and fight.
After an hour or so, I checked in with Den, but he’d had no joy. ‘London refuses to listen, Gertie. It’s an unscheduled transmission.’ He shrugged and carried on while mortar shells rained down, some falling onto a building nearby. There was an ear-deafening crash and debris flew through the air.
‘Jesus, that was close.’ Den froze. ‘Keep going!’ I yelled. ‘I’m going for more supplies.’ I left him to it and drove off alone to the field higher up, the site of our last parachutage. Supplies would be needed. I worked quickly, unpacked containers and loaded guns, ammunition, and mortars into the truck. Once I’d finished, I drove off towards the various fortified points of the Maquis, distributing weapons and ammunition where it was needed. All along the main road that led up to the plateau, shells rained down, heavier than before, and the low growl of an aircraft filtered in overhead. Squinting into the sun, I glimpsed sunlight glinting on metal as it circled above. The open road stretched before me, no woods for cover, so I continued driving, down the winding route to Freydefont. Den looked up when he saw me, his face scarlet, hair drenched in sweat.
‘I’ve made contact with London. The drop’s cancelled, but I’m still waiting on the message about Gaspard.’
‘Bloody fool’s digging in up there.’ Why was he so stubborn? I thought he’d finally seen sense, but it seemed I was wrong.
* * *
One of our lookouts told us that the entire area was swarming with Germans. London had to come through with that message. We had to be ready to withdraw by nightfall, and that included Gaspard. My body ached, muscles strained and trembled from lugging those containers around, and I longed to sleep. ‘Den. I’ll be at the farmhouse down the lane if you need me.’ Fournier had commandeered it for our use. Den nodded and turned back to his radio. I’d no sooner shut my eyes when someone shook me by the shoulders. Fournier.
‘Madame Andrée, you must not sleep here. It is too dangerous. Can you not hear the bombs?’
Bombs? I’d heard the odd explosion. I paused and listened. Gunfire rattled into the silence, the drone of aircraft overhead, followed by an ear-splitting crash, and tremors beneath me.
He pointed upward. ‘The Luftwaffe. They might hit this house.’
I slumped back down on the bed. ‘I’m so tired.’ I didn’t care anymore. I was knackered. For once I really couldn’t go on any longer.
‘Up you get.’ He grabbed my arms, pulled me up to my feet and led me outside. The sun glared, I squinted, half-staggered over the road to where some old trees stood tall and proud. I sank down beneath them, in the shade. ‘I’ll be here if anyone needs me.’ Fournier shook his head and went away muttering, and I closed my eyes, surrendering to myself.
* * *
‘Gertie, I’ve got it,’ Den’s voice, thin, breathy, his cheeks scarlet from the run. ‘The message. London has ordered Gaspard to withdraw.’
He waved a slip of paper in front of my face while I struggled to focus. I rubbed my eyes and stood up, my legs shaky, nausea swirling in my gut. I swallowed. ‘Good. Sign it, Den. From General Koenig.’
Den looked at me, his eyes widening.
‘Go on.’
He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and scrawled a signature on the slip. Koenig was de Gaulle’s main man, commander of the FFI, so if Gaspard was ever going to listen to anyone, it would be him. ‘Right then. Let’s take it to him.’ Den followed as we went to find a car and set off to give Gaspard the good news.
The road out of Freydefont was clear, but the crump of mortar shells grew louder. The Germans were closing in. As we neared Gaspard’s position, four German Henschel’s zipped overhead, spitting tracer fire over the Maquis. One of the aircraft broke away and headed straight for us. I ducked at the wheel. ‘Get down!’ I swerved, a clatter of bullets peppering the Citro?n. ‘Jesus Christ!’ I carried on, my foot to the floor. The Henschel made a sharp turn and came back for a second pass lower than before. The pilot fired, and I speeded up and then slammed the brakes on, doing my best to avoid his aim. As he came around again, I stamped on the brake, we screeched to a halt and flung ourselves from the car, landing in a ditch by the side of the road.
As soon as he roared overhead, we dashed back to the car. The bugger wasn’t going to give up, though, and he banked steeply, heading back towards us. I rummaged in the back of the car and grabbed my face cream, a packet of tea and my scarlet silk cushion before running for the cover of the trees, a trail of bullets at our heels, peppering the ground, red dust billowing up all around. The roar of an explosion behind us. A brief glance back confirmed the car had exploded, flames leaping all around it, smoke billowing. The woods gave us cover, but still, the Luftwaffe pilot circled above, strafing our position, bullets ricocheting off rocks and tree trunks. Poor Den was worn ragged. We both were.
Puffing and panting, he did his best to keep up but lagged behind. We scaled a hill to reach the plateau above. ‘Den. There he is. Waft that slip of paper under his nose.’ Gaspard, tall, defiant, talking to one of his lieutenants as the men all around ducked and crouched while firing at the enemy, a hail of return bullets zipping through the trees. I took cover behind a large boulder, still clutching my things to my chest. Well, there was no way I was losing everything. The sun was low, washing the sky scarlet as she slipped away. As I looked around, I noted several bodies lying motionless on the ground. I glanced at Gaspard as he read the note, surprise flitting across his face, an exchange of words and then Den ran back to me. ‘He’s given the order to withdraw.’
I blew out a breath. ‘Thank Christ.’ The maquisards gathered whatever weapons they could carry and withdrew. Nightfall would grant us some time, the cover of darkness our camouflage. There was no choice but to leave the dead where they had fallen. Anselm appeared from within a group of men. I stood up, caught his eye. ‘Boy, am I glad to see you.’
Anselm grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Ah, we meet again, Chérie. I see you persuaded Gaspard to leave.’
‘Well, in a way.’ My eyes hovered over the khaki rucksack slung over his shoulder. ‘Don’t suppose I could put my stuff in your bag?’
He looked at my things, raised an eyebrow. ‘By all means.’
The wounded were helped along as we made our escape via dirt tracks, scrambling down hillsides, clambering over rocks and streams. Fournier’s men were just ahead of us, by the river—our escape route. The River Truyère was high, the water fast flowing. There was no bridge, but Fournier had devised a plan a few weeks back. His men had created a footpath from logs that lay just beneath the surface of the water, having driven them into the riverbed, one by one. The first man across knew his way. The next also knew the crossing and acted as a guide for the rest of us and one by one, we were led across the stretch of wooden stepping stones to safety. Anselm went ahead of me.
‘Stay with me,’ he said.
‘Okay. If I fall in, you can fish me out.’ I took my time, ice-cold water seeping into my boots as I picked my way across. By mid-way point, my feet were almost numb, and as I stepped onto the next log, I slipped and would have fallen in headfirst if not for Anselm’s quick reactions as he reached out and grabbed me. I held onto him, following in his steps. When he reached the bank, he hauled me up alongside.
‘Thanks. Just as well you like to fish.’ I sat down on the bank; my heart still drumming. Anselm laughed.
‘Come on. We have a way to go yet.’
Saint Santin was about one hundred kilometres away. My heart sank. We kept to the minor routes which kept us out of the German’s way but made the journey longer. We ventured along rough tracks, climbed hills and hiked across the valley throughout the night and the next morning. Around mid-afternoon, we crossed paths with Gaspard and some of his men who had taken an alternative route.
‘Ah, Madame Andrée. We meet again.’ He smiled, took my arm in his while Anselm took my other arm, and the three of us strolled along with hundreds of maquisards marching behind.
I turned to Gaspard. ‘How many dead?’
‘Less than one hundred, but the Germans lost more.’ He wore a smug look, and I smiled to myself. If only he knew what we’d done. We’d saved his bacon, not that he’d have seen it that way. Still, all’s fair in love and war.