Nine

 

Up on the hill, squatting behind the Bren, Urquhart’s eyes were everywhere. The countryside below him looked warm and rich with the hot colours of late summer. It was friendly and real and he remembered how alien and foreign he’d felt when he’d first arrived in the spring. He frowned, uncertain of his emotions but sure that in the months he’d been there he’d become part of this little corner of Burgundy. He’d heard it said that France was the land all men loved, even the Germans, because here all men walked free and the sun shone down softly, as it did on no other place on earth. Now he knew what it meant.

He turned on his side and stared down the valley. As though they sensed the tension in the air, the grasshoppers had stopped their croaking and the silence was immense. No one moved except for the occasional messenger, standing on the pedals of his bicycle to drive the machine over the lumpy ground.

‘There’s a gun barrel glinting down there!’ Urquhart pointed out. ‘Tell them to rub dirt on it and push up the foliage a bit.’

Reinach’s head lifted. Over the silence they could hear nothing but the hum of bees. The stillness seemed to be a living thing, breathing alongside them in a curious kind of menace.

‘Tanks!’

They all heard the drum of engines and the clink and clatter of tank tracks. Reinach pointed and they saw the rising cloud of grey-white dust appear in the valley. Then they saw the flash of the sun on windscreens, and Reinach’s arm shot out again.

‘Here they come!’

A scout car appeared first, then a group of infantrymen, followed by two tanks moving like grey-green slugs up the winding road beneath the trees. Behind them was a group of lorries, then two more tanks, followed by buses and big troop-carrying lorries.

Neville caught his breath at the strength they implied and glanced uneasily at Urquhart. Urquhart was watching calmly, his eyes glinting, a tough self-reliant man in no doubt about what he was going to do.

‘Got the bastards,’ he said.

‘They’re not here yet.’ Neville looked along the ridge of the chalk cliff. ‘Some clot’s bound to fire too soon.’

Urquhart didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Grenades?’ he asked.

‘A dump every twenty-five yards. Ammunition caches in the trees.’ Neville scowled. ‘I don’t like this business. And neither will you by the time you’ve finished.’

Urquhart turned slowly. ‘Who said I ever did?’ he asked.

The head of the column had now reached the corner where the road turned and began its last straight climb up to the crest of the ridge. Two changes of direction and the confusion in the village had brought a weird mixture of old cars and lorries, men on stolen bicycles and motorbikes, even weary infantrymen on foot, up among the leading military vehicles. The column was moving with the speed of a tortoise because there were even horse-drawn vehicles interspersed among the lorries and, with no room to pass, they were all reduced to the pace of the starved and tired animals.

Urquhart’s teeth showed in a grin. ‘For the first time,’ he said, ‘the buggers are beginning to look defeated.’

 

As von Hoelcke’s tank turned the corner and ground to a halt, the road ahead looked deserted and Stephanie Moch on her petrolette was nowhere to be seen. Frobinius climbed out of his Mercedes and walked up to join the panzer captain, a puzzled frown on his face.

‘Where did she go to?’ he demanded.

‘She certainly didn’t carry on up here.’ Von Hoelcke’s eyes were sweeping the silent, empty landscape. ‘That machine just couldn’t go fast enough to be out of sight yet.’

‘Well, she couldn’t turn off.’

Von Hoelcke shook his head and pointed grimly at a narrow gully, its entrance half-hidden in the undergrowth. It was less than half a metre wide and disappeared like a tunnel into the trees. ‘Wild boar,’ he said. ‘I come from East Prussia and I’ve seen those things before. She pushed the bike down it, hid it, and kept on going.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

Von Hoelcke lifted his eyes. ‘We’ll know before long,’ he said.

 

High above the Germans, Urquhart continued to watch. Apart from one spot where the road beneath him was obscured by a curve of the land, he could see the whole valley. Several times, Reinach eyed him, waiting for a signal, but Urquhart didn’t move, sitting behind a Bren, his back against a stump of tree, relaxed, almost as if he were resting after a morning’s work. Behind him, among a group of girls who had refused to be sent away, Ernestine Bona and Marie-Claude waited with Doctor Mouillet, sitting under a little shelter they’d made out of branches to keep the sun off the wounded. As he glanced round at them, Ernestine waved but she didn’t give her usual smile. Marie-Claude’s expression remained frozen. Then he saw Gaston Dring running through the trees. ‘Stephanie’s arrived,’ he said.

Urquhart nodded and turned to Reinach who was muttering alongside him to the radio operator. ‘Where are the Americans?’

‘Other side of St Seigneur. They’re bringing up artillery. They’ll make a hell of a mess.’

Urquhart stared down the slope towards Néry. There’d be other places in a mess before the day was out, he thought.

‘What about the Free French?’

‘Coming as fast as they can. They’re at Champagnole. That’s still three and a half hours away.’

Urquhart crossed himself. ‘God help us,’ he muttered.

 

Von Hoelcke’s tank stopped and the big gun barrel had begun to swing. The machine looked formidable with the bundles of camouflage netting for night bivouac strapped to its hull. Then changing gear with high-pitched whine, it lurched and moved on another few yards before stopping again.

‘The bloody plan was too complicated,’ Neville said uneasily. ‘The buggers are suspicious.’

An armoured car, followed by a truckload of troops, moved forward and stopped alongside the tank. The tank’s hatch opened and a figure stuck its head out.

 

There was a mile-long drop back to Néry. It was hot in the tank and von Hoelcke was gulping at the warm afternoon air. They had already wasted far too much time getting away from this god-forsaken place, but at least the road ahead didn’t appear to be blocked, and he could see all the way to the crest and across open fields on the right where his tanks and guns could manoeuvre. ‘They must have decided this road couldn’t be held,’ he said.

 

As the tankman turned to speak to the man in the black uniform standing in the road, Urquhart’s eyes narrowed. The sun was hot on his back and he was sweating. Neville was staring through his binoculars.

‘That’s the SS man,’ he said. ‘The bastard who shot young Dréo.’

‘So what?’ Urquhart’s voice was harsh. ‘Are you thinking of challenging him to a duel?’ His hand sliced down. ‘Forget him! You know your bloody history. We don’t have man-to-man fights any longer. You made a good plan. Don’t spoil it by going at it half-cocked.’

Neville became silent. Not far away, crouching in the bushes at the edge of the chalk cliff, Théyras was gnawing at a piece of bread and sausage. Sergeant Dréo and his son were sitting on rocks beside the old mitrailleuse, their stiff legs stuck straight out in front of them, the old man’s face like wood beneath the steel helmet he’d brought back in 1918. Near them Lionel Dring crouched behind his anti-tank gun, his eyes narrow. Balmaceda sat beside him, clutching fresh ammunition to his chest. He looked ancient, and, with his toupee slipping again, even a little drunk.

The smell from the engines below wafted up to them, and Neville could hear the putter of diesels reverberating against the flat white face of the cliff. The leading tank had the number 375 painted on its turret in white, and it seemed to have been newly camouflaged in brown and green splodges. From where he sat, he could almost see into the hatch.

It was an ideal position for snipers and there were plenty of people lining the cliff who could shoot. But no one succumbed to the temptation.

Urquhart turned to him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Get down there! The first two vehicles are to be allowed through.’

Neville began to move away, running in a crouch.

‘And, Neville!’

Neville stopped and turned. Urquhart’s face was hard.

‘No backing away! None of your bloody compassion! Every German dead today means one less of our people dead tomorrow!’

Neville nodded, but was still shocked by Urquhart’s cold-blooded attitude.

Then Urquhart grinned and waved him away. ‘Here’s to a short war,’ he said.

By this time, the two tanks in the lead had moved a little higher up the slope. The road was steep, the surface worn smooth, and the tracks slipped. As the engines screamed, the first tank slid sideways on the camber of the road and tucked its nose into the bank. The officer climbed out. He’d abandoned his jacket and they could see the sweat on his face and darkening the back of his shirt and under his arms. He was peering towards the rear of the tank as though he was having trouble with the engine.

The driver also opened his hatch and climbed out. Then the officer began to shout something to the commander of the second tank who emerged on to his turret. He was in shorts and looked like a boy with his ash-blond hair. His head disappeared, but as his tank moved it too slid to the side of the road and ended up alongside the first tank.

Reinach was grinning. ‘We’ve got them,’ he said. ‘Dans le pot de chambre.’ He looked expectantly at Urquhart, who shook his head.

‘Wait!’

‘But we have them!’

Urquhart ignored the urgings, watching carefully as an armoured car began to edge past the tanks.

‘Wait,’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘They’re going to try the soft-skinned vehicles. That makes it easier. And if the tanks want to move now, they’ll have to wait for the jam to clear and come at it with a rush. Tell the radio operator to let de Frager know.’

Reinach was puzzled by Urquhart’s intentions, and it was Marie-Claude who scrambled to her feet.

‘I’ll go!’

As she hurried off through the trees, a big troop carrier followed the armoured car in low gear past the stalled tanks, an exasperated officer standing in the road waving it on. Helmeted men clung to the tarpaulin frames shouting insults at the tankmen. They were festooned with ammunition belts, some of them with grenades round their necks. Every one of them held a machine-gun or a sub-machine-gun.

The carrier negotiated the jam with difficulty and slipped out of sight beneath the escarpment. Urquhart held his breath. Just in front below him he could see a lizard on a rock basking in the sun. Father Pol crouched among the bushes behind it, clutching a rifle, his spectacles down his nose, his shovel hat tilted forward; he was sweating in the sun.

‘Blessed be God,’ he was muttering. ‘Blessed be His holy name. Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true man.’ He looked up and saw Urquhart watching him. ‘Agony isn’t mitigated because others share it,’ he pointed out.

Urquhart nodded and crossed himself and Father Pol lifted his hand, two fingers raised in blessing. ‘Blessed be our venture today, my son. God grant that France will soon be free.’

Urquhart turned. Théyras caught his eye and, brushing his moustache with the back of his hand, made a gesture as though he were drinking from a bottle. Urquhart licked his lips. His heart was thumping but he was quite calm. He turned again and looked down the valley.

 

Negotiating the corner, the young lieutenant commanding the armoured car stared ahead. The road rose in a straight line in front of him to where it traversed the crest by way of a cutting. Beyond, it appeared to be unoccupied. There were more trees up there, but they were set well back from the road and there seemed a chance. There were probably men with guns sitting among the rocks by the cutting, however, and he jerked his helmet down and tapped the driver.

‘Straight ahead,’ he said. ‘And fast. Ready?’

‘Ready, sir.’

The lieutenant stood up and waved to the driver of the lorry-load of troops behind. ‘If we can get to that cutting and hold it, we’re all safe!’ he yelled. ‘Let’s go!’

The driver let in his clutch and the armoured car jerked. The engine of the lorry behind roared, then the two of them headed up the hill. The cutting came closer and, expecting a blast of fire, the lieutenant drew his head down into his shoulders. Just in front there were patches of dirt and stones on the tarmacadam and he suspected immediately that they concealed mines. But, by a miracle, they were past and nothing had happened. The road beyond was clear!

‘Radio,’ he snapped, and as he was handed the microphone, he shouted into it. ‘Eifel calling Schnee Elbert! Eifel calling Schnee Elbert!’

Von Hoelcke’s voice came back. ‘Schnee Elbert to Eifel. Go ahead.’

The lieutenant’s voice broke with his excitement. ‘We’re through!’ he yelled. ‘There’s nothing up here! Nothing at all!’

Rising from the turret, von Hoelcke shouted down to Frobinius waiting alongside.

‘The road’s clear,’ he said.

‘Typical of the French,’ Frobinius grinned. ‘They’ve only half done the job.’

He ran to his car as von Hoelcke waved his arms to the vehicles behind. He wanted them out of the way so that he and his tanks could reverse and take the hill at speed. The column edged backwards, the gaps between the vehicles closing until they were bumper to bumper, and the lurch rearwards travelled all the way down to Néry in another vast concertina movement like a caterpillar in reverse until it came to a stop on the outskirts of the village, where the jam in the street brought it to a halt.

As a little space was cleared, von Hoelcke’s tanks edged backwards, too, reversing from the bank and down the hill until the road flattened out a little. As they stopped again, von Hoelcke touched his driver’s shoulder with his foot.

‘Right, driver,’ he said. ‘Full Speed ahead! And this time stop for nothing!’

The tank’s treads slipped and for a second it slithered sideways on the camber of the road; then it began to pick up speed. As the corner drew near, von Hoelcke held his breath, but the tank negotiated the turn flat out, clattering round and filling the valley with the noise of its engine as it began to climb. Beyond the cutting they could see the armoured car waiting with the troop carrier, the soldiers lining the side of the road, alert for any signs of trouble.

They were within a hundred yards of the ridge, approaching the dirt-patched stretch of road, the first of the lorries behind them level with the face of the escarpment and going at full speed, when von Hoelcke saw the tarmacadam patches in front of him erupt in a sheet of flame and the whole road lifted in a shower of dirt, stones and chunks of soil.