The burly commander's collar dripped with sweat in the afternoon sun. Domingo touched his own, just as wet, and listened to the man’s every word.
“Now that London has given us free rein, we can break into our ammunition stores. We have enough to arm at least five thousand men, with close to that number of partisans waiting in the forest.
“A Belo-Russian squad that found its way here tells of strapping explosives to dogs trained to run under tanks, but the Soviet diesel fuel confused the dogs. We have a better idea.”
Domingo noticed men in the crowd stiffen. Surely this commander must know these partisans tended sheep and loved their dogs. But he continued.
“The Russian army fit forty thousand dogs with a ten to twelve kilo mine each and removed the safety pin just before deployment. On the eastern front, the Germans were desperate, too, and shot them without hesitation. That at least helps us understand why the Nazis kill every dog they see here.”
“But you say you have better ideas?” Petra’s calm question staved off Domingo’s disgust.
“With bazookas and leisure to hit the weak place in the back of each tank without hundreds of infantry on hand, it would be easy. But armed troops accompany the tanks, so we must kill the guards, send a man underneath the tank to place the mine, pull the pin, and flee to safety. A complicated procedure best accomplished by night.” He scanned the group of men before him. “Obviously, this task requires a wiry frame, a fast runner, a cool head, and strokes of good fortune.” He looked Petra and Domingo over. “Does either of you qualify?”
“We’ve seen those iron beasts in motion—that qualifies us.”
“I see, but I hate to lose good men.” The leader rubbed his dense beard. “Tanks do have one disadvantage. They can’t make it through deep water, and to reach Normandy, these units must cross both the Dordogne and the Vezere Rivers, and if we hit the bridges first, we stop more tanks than if we physically disabled each one.
“The enemy has already brought tanks forward to guard those bridges. Still, with twenty thousand Panzer troops approaching from Toulouse, armed with the newest Mark IV Panther—the Reich’s largest single armored unit—we aim to stretch their four-day trip into fourteen.”
Petra ground his teeth. “Or forever.”
“Our forces have scattered, yet we must kill twenty guards while others place the mines. Are you ready?”
“Oui.” Domingo and Petra spoke as one.
“You can swim?”
At their nods, he gestured them closer and lowered his voice.
“You’ll be heading toward a bridge over the Dordogne. North of there, the citizens welcomed forty thousand Alsatians in ’39, so they’ll be mighty glad to see you. We assemble in a few hours, over there. Get some rest.”
In the luxury of having alert sentinels posted around them, Domingo and Petra made themselves comfortable under a tree and lost no time falling asleep.
The next thing Domingo knew, Petra’s gruff shake woke him. “Don’t want to miss the excitement, do we?”
For the first time in days, his eyes showed more white than red. Domingo scraped together his pack and followed toward a troop assembling around the man who spoke with them earlier.
“Men, when our armies surrendered to the foe, one leader, General De Gaulle, refused. From London almost four full years ago, on June twentieth, he called on us to regroup, reminding us that we could not capitulate.
“We took heart that day, but now, the enemy encroaches even more, so we move through the Causse de Gramat toward the black Perigord. Through those shadowy forests, the enemy will soon approach the River Vezere. Another unit travels farther west, south of Bergerac.” He paused for a breath.
“We know this land. Perhaps you recall the old Perigord saying, ‘Stone for nasty people, your heart for your friends, iron for your enemies; if you are these three, you are a Perigordin.’
“We count on the people’s magnanimity, as did the large influx of Alsatian refugees. Those who speak Occitan ...” The leader bobbed his chin at Domingo and Petra. “... may have to translate. But once the peasants understand our purpose, no one will argue.”
Domingo lost patience with his verbosity, though he wasn’t the first local leader bent on glory. As the day’s heat mounted, an itch started between Domingo’s shoulder blades. No need for a history lesson every time his mouth opens.
“We follow the Dordogne two kilometers until it juts into a finger. The bridge ... how many of you know it already?”
Several hands shot up. “Good. At last report, the next wave of tanks approached Fraysinet-le-Gelat, so we shall stop them here.” He pointed a ragged fingernail at the spot on a frayed map.
“We cross the river in Lot, pass over into Dordogne, and surprise the guards from the north. Thanks to the latest drop, several bazookas accompany us—here’s to success.”
For a moment, a familiar face visited Domingo—Katarin's dark eyes, the smoothness of her skin... No time now for that, or to ponder Maman and Gabirel.
“Decide who will silence the guards and who will swim underwater to place the charges. The killings must be swift and soundless. We have the moon on our side, and remember, destroying even one end of the bridge will stop the panzers.”
Petra muttered under his breath, “Crossing a wide plateau in daylight, eh? Our angels will have to do double duty.”
They followed a rocky path meandering through limestone outcroppings. Here and there, a pasture full of black-eyed sheep grazed between fields that ought to be producing grain by now.
Around Saint-Céré, with the Bave glinting in the sun, and then on past Rocamadour, with houses straggled almost straight up the incline. An ancient stone church lazed placidly in the morning light as it had for centuries, its turrets and steeple roofs rusty red.
Its careful stonework created a mottled mosaic of gold and dun, tan and brown. Patches of moss on the shaded north side made designs like those on the sheep pen back home, and beyond the church, the blue Alzou River crossed a green valley.
Aitaita spoke of the miracles that had occurred in this place—King Henry Plantagenet and Saint Louis IX’s healings. He’d climbed the two hundred steps on his knees, and believed Zacchaeus, whom the locals knew as Saint Amadour, was buried here after witnessing the deaths of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Rome.
Of all places to build a chapel, why pick cliff walls four hundred feet high? But after this one, Amadour’s followers built six more, one housing the mysterious Black Madonna. Clearly, they had no Nazis to consider in those days. But surely the Reich would not destroy these ancient buildings.
When they paused for water, Petra asked, “Do you believe the tales of those who came here for healing? Will you bring your grandchildren here one day, as our Aitaitas did with us?”
“Ask me when the war is over.”
Near Geoffre de Padirac, the entrances to vast caves and grottos took Domingo back to his own visits with Aitaita, who retold legends evoking the devil. “Yes, the evil one kicked his heel into the earth here. That kick supposedly created a massive hole, into which the devil challenged Saint Martin to jump, in order to save the souls of the peasants from hell. Saint Martin and his mule jumped into the hole to defeat the devil, who then vanished in the chasms below.”
Years ago, Aitaita showed Domingo the hoof print where Saint Martin’s mule landed, and told him that flames occasionally erupted from the chasm. These natural phenomena explained the legend.
Around this natural wonder lay houses made of stones fitted closely together. Men like Saint Amadour used what they found at hand—these stones—to express their faith and protect their families.
Soon Domingo and the men with him would destroy a bridge built by human hands, but he could think no further than that. Would he survive this war to father children or enjoy grandchildren? He shrugged, knowing Petra understood.
At dusk, they entered Souillac. Beyond the houses, they slipped past the ancient Abbatiale-Sainte-Marie to barter for boats to cross the Dordogne. Domingo stuck his oar into the water and Petra gave a low whistle.
“The water runs so quiet here. Maybe the war has stopped.”
“Then you and I merely imagined those tanks, mon ami?”
“Oui, the fruit of our grand imaginations.”
In darkness, they hauled the boats ashore, their hulls crunching against the pebbles of the bank. Then, like ghosts slipping from shadow to shadow, the men scaled the riverside and found a path paralleling the Dordogne. At every curve and ravine, Domingo listened, hoping to hear crickets chirping and small animals in the woods instead of tanks humming.
They faced an enemy in impenetrable armor. Fresh from their winter refitting near Toulouse, these vehicles never grew weary. But Domingo reminded himself of the M16’s, pistols, and most importantly, bazookas.
“Aim those big B’s at the back of the tank, its only weak point. The turret can still turn and blast you, so aim, fire, and run. The three best shots here, find high ground to provide sniper cover.”
Orders filtered through his mind in no particular sequence. In the glow of twilight, the team serpentined their way along the bank toward their prey. Just before dawn, word reached Petra and Domingo. “We’re within three kilometers of the bridge.” Four of the men in their group hurried forward to assess the situation up ahead.
In a few minutes, more orders came. “Those carrying explosives, gather here.”
Petra led the way, and Domingo shifted his pack to the earth for a little rest before the onslaught.
~
Was it twilight or just before dawn? So many words—messages from somewhere—swirled in Kathryn’s head. She’d just stopped working— but what had she been doing, anyway? Voices carried as she descended a long stairway. As if the speakers became excited and then remembered to hush their tones, words undulated in and out.
She shouldn’t be listening, that much she knew. But after a night of hearing other voices ... why on earth was she isolated so far away from everyone in this enormous building? After long hours, her shoulders ached, and she paused to rub the back of her neck.
“Kidnap the Pope? Well, I would put nothing past Hitler. Where did you hear ... couriers straight from the Vatican ... take courage from our brother in Assisi ... have no doubt he’ll continue hiding the Chosen ... pockets of courage spring up in this desolation ... keep hearing of feats I would never have dreamed...”
Following the stairs led her to a long foyer ending in a room with a black and white floor. That smell—not coffee, but something close. A rich dark aroma wakened Kathryn’s senses, and still the chatting flowed. Where were those talkers?
“I look back at my big hopes ... Sometimes I wonder what tangible good our exertions have accomplished, Père?”
“...cannot see the end yet ... still make a difference ...Remember, after Peter fished all night in vain, the Master came and swamped the boat with fish ... never understood Peter’s reaction until now—he ought to have been overjoyed. But it wasn’t about fish at all. No, at some point, finally, we see the poverty of our anxious efforts and cry, “I’m too sinful—get away from me!”
Such a peculiar conversation, but intriguing.
“... but our Lord remains ... knows our dire need, our fumbling, and still blesses our actions ... partly the war, partly our aging—the more we see of Him, the more we can face who we truly are, shadows and all.”
“Ah, yes. Create in me a clean heart...”
Footsteps began out in the foyer and grew closer. “Another day has come, the sun has risen once again ... let us see what great deeds He can accomplish through us, Père.”
Shadows, robes, and human scents developed into the warmth of people present in the room. “Ah, and here’s our girl, Père. How did your night go?”
Père ...father. The gush of spoken French enticed Kathryn. If only she could open her eyes, she might remember who stood over her back then. But that place whooshed away when a cool hand touched hers.
“How was her night?”
“Far less restless—she slept much better. The pain meds seem to be working.”
“Good. Cut them in half and we’ll see how she manages today. Maybe we ought to bring in a radio and turn on some music to stimulate her. We can’t let her sleep forever.”