‘That was a shot,’ Dawson said, stating the blindingly obvious, ‘and it sounded pretty close to us.’
Celine nodded. ‘I think a rifle or a pistol,’ she said, ‘but not a shotgun. And that is strange. Most farmers here have shotguns, but few rifles in this area, and I know no one who has pistol.’
‘Let’s get moving, find out what’s going on.’
They walked faster now, covering the remaining 100 yards or so to the clearing as quickly as they could, but still keeping within the shelter of the trees.
When they reached the final bend in the track that led to the farmhouse, they came to a stop about ten feet from the edge of the forest and stared at the scene in front of them. Parked outside the property was an army truck, and the grey-green uniforms of the soldiers milling around it left them in no doubt of their nationality.
‘Those are Germans,’ Celine hissed, the intensity of her anger and hatred unmistakable. ‘What are they doing here in Luxembourg? How did they get into the country?’
The front door of the farmhouse was open, and, even from the distance they were standing, Dawson and Celine could see that the lock had been blown apart, presumably by the bullet they’d heard being fired a few moments earlier. And then, in a matter of seconds, what had clearly been a bad situation turned infinitely worse.
The front door of the farmhouse suddenly crashed back on its hinges, and two German soldiers stepped out, dragging a struggling woman behind them.
Beside Dawson, Celine tensed. ‘Oh, God. My mother,’ she moaned.
Moments later, another two soldiers emerged from the house, this time hauling out a middle-aged man. Dawson really didn’t need Celine’s whispered confirmation to know that this unfortunate civilian was her father.
The Germans slammed the man and woman against the wall of the house and held them there, as if waiting for someone.
‘I must to do something,’ Celine hissed. ‘Give me the shotgun.’
Dawson shifted the weapon to his other hand, away from her. He absolutely understood her fear and emotion, but he also realized the odds they were facing. He just hoped the Germans would have to be cautious in their actions, simply because of where they were. He assumed they’d managed to talk their way into Luxembourg on the pretext of being in hot pursuit of the ‘British criminals’, but he didn’t expect them to be violent towards any of the people they were questioning.
‘No, Celine,’ he said. ‘Right now, there’s nothing we can do. If we run out there now brandishing that shotgun, they’d cut us down before we’d covered ten yards. And I don’t think the Germans will hurt your parents, because they shouldn’t even be here in Luxembourg.’
‘But what they want? Why are they here? They still hunt you?’
For a moment, Dawson didn’t reply, because he’d just spotted the man he’d hoped he’d never see again. The high-peaked cap with the Totenkopf emblem made him stand out from the other men, and the SS runes on his lapel only confirmed the identification.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered.
‘What is it?’ Celine asked.
‘That man over there, the one wearing the officer’s uniform. He’s SS – in fact, they’re probably all SS – and it’s him and his squad of men who’ve been chasing us ever since we busted out of the barn back in Kesslingen. He nearly caught us a couple of times. He’s really sharp.’
The German soldiers moved aside as the SS officer stepped forward, their deference towards him quite obvious. He crossed to where the four soldiers had pinioned the man and woman against the wall of the farmhouse, stopped directly in front of Celine’s father, just a foot or two away, stared at him for a few seconds and then barked something, some question, but the wind whipped his words away, and Celine couldn’t hear what he was saying.
The old man shook his head. The SS officer stepped even closer and prodded him in the chest and shouted something else at him.
‘What do they want?’ Celine asked again.
‘Us, at a guess,’ Dawson said shortly. ‘Watson and me. We didn’t kill any civilians – in fact, we didn’t even see any – but we had quite a few encounters with German soldiers and each time we came off best. Until now, that is,’ he added. ‘I don’t think that SS bastard is ever going to give up chasing us.’
Celine seemed to relax slightly. ‘Well, my parents cannot tell them anything about you. They know nothing. They did not wake up when the police arrived last night and they were still sleep when I saw you go into the wash-house this morning.’
‘So with any luck, they should just give up and move off in a few minutes,’ Dawson suggested, never taking his eyes off the SS officer.
And that looked as if it was going to happen. The officer stepped across to Celine’s mother and presumably asked her the same question or questions, with exactly the same result – she just shook her head.
The officer moved away and barked orders at the soldiers, some of whom started heading back towards the lorry they’d obviously arrived in.
But then there was another shout, and a soldier pushed his way hurriedly through a group of his comrades towards the officer.
‘What happens now?’ Celine asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Dawson replied, apprehension colouring his voice.
The soldier stopped beside the SS officer and handed him something, some small object, and pointed back across the yard towards the wash-house.
A sudden jolt of fear coursed through Dawson’s veins, and he reached down to his right boot.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he muttered. ‘I think they’ve found my trench knife.’
‘What?’
‘My trench knife. When you found me in the wash-house, you made me kick the bayonet and the knife over towards you, so you could have a look at them. And then you kicked them away from you. I remember I grabbed the bayonet – I’ve got it in my belt right now – but the trench knife must have slid under something in the wash-house, because I don’t remember picking it up again.’
‘You idiot! You stupid, stupid idiot! Why did you not take it with you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dawson muttered. ‘I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.’
‘So now they know you are there,’ Celine said flatly. ‘How else would a Wehrmacht knife be in wash-house of a Luxembourg farm?’
‘Yes,’ Dawson said, ‘but your parents will still know nothing about that.’
‘Well, I hope the Germans believe them,’ Celine muttered, her voice low and angry, ‘because if anything happens to them it is your fault.’
Silently, they watched the drama unfold in front of them.
The SS officer nodded to the soldier, turned away and walked back towards the two captives, still pressed up against the wall of the farmhouse, their arms held firmly by the soldiers beside them. Now Dawson could see that he was holding a knife of some sort and, as the officer reached Celine’s father, he pulled the blade from its scabbard and waved the weapon in front of the old man’s face.
‘That must be the trench knife,’ Dawson muttered.
‘What are we going to do?’
Dawson was figuring the odds, looking for angles and weaknesses in the German position. The facts were overwhelming – they were looking at twelve or thirteen soldiers, most with Mauser carbines slung over their shoulders, though a couple were armed with Schmeisser MP 40 machine-pistols. Between them, he and Celine had an elderly shotgun, two cartridges loaded with buckshot, and a bayonet. He’d have thought twice about tackling even a single enemy soldier with that armoury – against the number in front of them, any attack would be suicide.
Dawson fully understood the reality of their situation and so, he knew, did Celine. He also knew they had to do something – he could not just sit there in hiding and watch her parents be killed by the German soldiers. Not when part of the reason for their predicament was his fault. They had to do something soon – the questioning by the SS officer was already getting visibly more aggressive.
‘I could get across there, behind the barn,’ Dawson whispered, pointing towards the hay barn. ‘That would bring the soldiers within range of the shotgun.’
‘Yes? And after you fire both barrels? What then?’
‘Run back here.’
‘You will never make it,’ Celine snapped. ‘You would be dead before you get half-way here.’ She looked around, then stepped back. ‘Wait here,’ she said.
‘But what—’ Dawson started to say, but she’d already gone, running lithely through the trees, deeper into the forest and away from the farm.
He had no idea where she’d gone, or what her intentions were, but he was certain she’d be back. She wouldn’t abandon her mother and father without trying to do everything in her power to save them. Maybe she’d gone for help, to try to find the Luxembourg police or somebody. He just didn’t know.
But whatever Celine’s intentions, Dawson hoped she’d be quick, because the situation at the farm was deteriorating – fast.
The SS officer was still shouting at Celine’s father, waving the trench knife in front of his face, clearly running short of patience. He stepped sideways to stand next to Celine’s mother, and repeated his questioning, with the same result. It was only a matter of time, Dawson knew, before the officer escalated the interrogation, neutral Luxembourg or not.
And even as he watched, the SS officer stepped back from the old man and gave orders to one of the soldiers standing nearby. The soldier put down his Schmeisser, undid his equipment belt and placed that on the ground near his machine-pistol. Then he removed his tunic to reveal a very grubby undershirt.
The SS officer said something else to him and he nodded agreement. He stepped forward to the middle-aged man and said something to him. But before the captive could reply, the German soldier smashed his fist into his stomach.
Despite the restraining arms of the soldiers standing on either side of him, the old man bent forward, retching and gasping for breath. A few feet away, Celine’s mother howled in anguish, a high, keening wail that echoed around the clearing. Another soldier stepped forward quickly and slapped her across the face. The wailing ceased abruptly.
The first soldier reached down with his left hand, grabbed a handful of the old man’s hair and wrenched his head up. Then he crashed his right fist into the man’s face and stepped back.
Even from fifty yards away, Dawson could see the blood streaming from his mouth and nose as he slumped forward again, still fighting for breath. At a command from the SS officer, the two soldiers holding the man released him and he collapsed to the ground. The soldier stepped back and aimed a powerful kick at the old man’s stomach, a blow so violent that it lifted his body an inch or two off the ground.
Then the soldier moved sideways to stand in front of Celine’s mother, and Dawson knew exactly what was going to happen next. And he knew that, no matter what the consequences, he had to try to stop it.
The attention of all the German soldiers was concentrated on the events unfolding outside the farmhouse and none of them, as far as he could tell, was looking in his direction. That was absolutely the only edge he had.
He checked the shotgun once again, but left the hammers forward – he couldn’t risk tripping and the weapon discharging accidentally.
He looked again at the soldiers, then moved to his left, still in the shelter of the trees, until the hay barn was more or less directly between him and the enemy troops, to provide him with the maximum possible cover. Then he took a deep breath, gripped the shotgun firmly, and ran.