Later that evening, Dawson – still dressed in the rags he’d been wearing when he crossed the Maginot Line and carrying a small kitbag in his hand – left the British army camp by climbing over a fence into the adjoining field and wandered down the road to where the French troops were billeted.
He found a sunny spot not far from the road, tucked the kitbag out of sight, sat down and took out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. He lit a cigarette and sat there smoking, looking around him with what looked like casual disinterest. In fact, he was taking careful note of the camp routine and looking out for just one man.
The sun had sunk below the western horizon when he saw a small group of officers walking along the road that led to Dalstein, laughing and chatting. Dawson assumed they’d visited the local bar and were on their way back to their billets.
As the group reached the camp, they split up and went their separate ways. As they did so, Dawson ground out his cigarette under his boot and started walking down the road. About fifty yards in front of him, a slim, dapper officer strode along, whistling a tune. Dawson increased his pace to catch up.
At the sound of his footsteps, the French officer glanced behind him, then stared in astonishment.
‘You!’ he gasped. ‘But I thought—’
‘You thought what, Capitaine de St Véran? You thought the mine you carefully placed in the cleared zone must have killed us? Unluckily for you, my friend Dave Watson – he’s still alive too, by the way – and I are very thorough, and we found it. Or did you think we might have been killed by the German soldiers that you knew were advancing towards the forest?’
‘I didn’t place a mine and I don’t know about the Germans.’ St Véran began a blustering denial, but his eyes told a different story. ‘How dare you address me in such an offensive manner?’
‘I’m not here to argue with you, Capitaine,’ Dawson said. ‘I know the truth and you know that I do. I’m not interested in your feeble excuses.’
‘Then what are you here for?’ St Véran demanded.
‘For this,’ Dawson snapped. ‘To kill you.’
He bent down and in a single fluid movement he drew the Wehrmacht trench knife – the one he’d taken from the dead soldier outside Celine’s farmhouse – and drove the blade deep into the French officer’s stomach.
St Véran gasped in agony, eyes popping from his head and his mouth open in a soundless scream as Dawson worked the blade higher and higher.
‘This isn’t for me and it isn’t for Dave Watson. This is for Tommy Blake and the other British lads that you abandoned along with us in the Warndt Forest, the men who won’t be coming back out because the Germans slaughtered them. That was your fault, you treacherous fucking Frog.’
As he said the last word, Dawson rammed upwards with all of his strength. The tip of the trench knife ripped St Véran’s heart apart, and he slumped down dead.
Dawson dragged his body to the side of the road and tossed the corpse into the ditch that ran alongside it.
‘Good riddance, you bastard,’ he muttered, and walked away.
The front of his uniform was soaked in blood from the appalling injury he’d inflicted on the French officer, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Dawson walked back to where he’d left the kitbag and opened it up. He pulled out a new clean battledress, stripped off the old clothes and dressed in the new uniform. He carefully folded the old battledress so that the bloodstains were on the inside, tucked it into the kitbag and walked slowly back to the British army camp. He re-entered it using the same route as before.
There were a couple of fires burning there, soldiers sitting round them smoking and drinking tea. Dawson walked over to the biggest one.
‘You look smart, Eddie,’ one of the men said. ‘New uniform?’
‘You bet. The old one was just rags, really. Mind if I get rid of it here?’
‘Help yourself.’
Dawson nodded his thanks, opened up the kitbag, pulled out his old battledress and tossed it onto the flames. He sat down next to the fire, accepted a mug of tea and watched as his old uniform – and all the evidence of his encounter with the French officer – was burnt away to ashes.
‘Thanks, lads,’ he said and stood up and walked back to the tent he was sharing with Dave Watson.
‘It’s done?’ Watson asked, propping himself up on one elbow.
‘It’s done,’ Dawson nodded. ‘I used the trench knife I took off one of the Jerry soldiers at Celine’s farmhouse and I left it there. When someone finds the body, they’ll most probably start looking for a renegade German soldier.’
‘Well, they certainly won’t come looking for you. You’ve been here with me all evening. Nobody saw you leave or come back, I hope?’
Dawson shook his head. ‘No. I climbed the fence at the bottom of the field.’
‘So that’s it, is it?’
‘For St Véran it is, Dave, but I’m not quite finished yet. That’s one score settled, but I’ve still got that bastard of an SS officer to take care of.’
‘You might never see him again.’
‘Don’t worry, Dave. I don’t know how, but somehow, somewhere, I’m going to find him. I made Celine a promise and I’m bloody well going to keep it. I don’t like unfinished business.’