The following morning the band of Maquisards boarded their dilapidated truck before sunrise, heading to the shores of St. Tropez. The rustic path down from the mountains was quiet, as was the road toward the coastline. As the men got closer, there was more movement, both of people on foot, and in vehicles. Pierre parked the truck just south of Grimaud, on the property of a friendly truck repair facility. Three of the partisans went their way to perform various errands, while Pierre took Mac toward the beach on foot.
“We stay off the roadways, Harvard. The Germans patrol the shoreline regularly, along with being dug in at various spots along the highways, most of which we know about. Marseille and Toulon have larger troop camps, as the Krauts expect that any invasion in the south will be directed at the ports. The beach between Toulon and Nice is sparsely populated in comparison to the port cities. That is why we suggest St. Tropez as a possible landing site.”
“That makes sense. You can call me Mac, by the way. That is what everyone calls me.”
“I prefer Harvard if that is alright. The more anonymity you have, the better off you will be. If someone gets caught, they will not even know your name to give it up.”
“I understand, but I know all of your first names.”
“Who says those are our real names,” laughed Pierre.
“Ah,” laughed Mac. “So, Pierre, how far are we from the beach?”
“About seven miles, Harvard. You will see the water well before we get to St. Tropez, but that is the village of Port Grimaud. St. Tropez is on a jut out in the coastline just south of Port Grimaud. Once we get there, you will see what we are talking about in terms of the topography as a prospective landing site.”
Mac did not bring a camera with him, given the danger of the mission, and the inappropriateness of carrying one. He was not afraid of coming across German troops so much as he was aware of the possibility of French collaborators anywhere along the route, only too eager to report a young man traipsing around with a fancy camera. Pierre had told him not to worry about it so much, as they would be long gone before any collaborator could summon a German to the area. Mac was still concerned, and he was being careful to not be too conspicuous.
“This is it, Harvard. Don’t worry, we have photographs of the beach back at the house,” said Pierre, obviously reading the mind of his guest. “We have provided photographs of all the beaches along the south of France to our contacts already. I am sure that your Generals have already seen them.”
“I’m not sure about that. Bureaucracy, you know how that works.”
“I do, my friend. France is just one big bureaucratic nightmare.”
“I will send whatever pictures you have with my report. This is beautiful, Pierre.”
“Yes, it is. It is a shame it will all be destroyed when the Allies land here.”
“Not destroyed, mon ami; marred perhaps. It will all come back afterwards.”
“Yes, I suppose. We need to get back, Harvard. We have a long walk back to the truck. Our friends will be waiting for us.”
“I have seen what I have come to see. Allons-y”
As Mac wrote his report later that evening, he poured over the photographs and maps provided by Pierre. He came to the same conclusion as to the viability of St. Tropez as a landing site, and he said so in his report, giving the appropriate credit to the partisans for the information. He told Pierre that he did not need to see the port cities just now, and that he was going to recommend St. Tropez, given what he saw. He filed his report with colorful descriptions of his co-conspirators, the Maquisards, and their safe farmhouse, and a diatribe of what was needed by the men to perform their jobs with distinction. Mac was told that his report would be personally handed to a contact the next day, and that it should be off to those to whom he had written to the following day.
That night, upon radioing into Corsica, Mac was told that the General had gotten his message, and that they could expect an airdrop the following evening, along with a list of desired targets for the coming weeks. The package delivered would be more than sufficient to get the missions completed, and that more supplies would be forthcoming. The Resisters were flabbergasted that Mac could get such immediate results, and they were excited to see what would be sent on such short notice.
The following night, under the light of a full moon, a dual engine plane flew low over the farmhouse, signaling the Maquisards that their package was about to be dropped. On a second pass, a palette of provisions was parachuted down onto the compound no more than fifty yards from the farmhouse. The men ran out to secure the package with wheelbarrows and wagons, tearing at the straps of the parachute, rolling it up for burial. The supply package contained a cache of weapons, including the requested handguns, grenades, smoke canisters, and enough ammunition to last a good while. There were also boxes of dynamite, packed carefully in shredded paper, for use in completing their missions. The boxes of food supplies contained a list of their targets, listed as towns where the provisions came from, which the Maquisards knew happened to contain rail stations and truck depots. The list had target dates next to each town, signifying when the target would be available, covering the next few months.
Of perhaps utmost importance in terms of convincing his fellow Resisters that Mac could get the job done when called upon was the carefully wrapped, freshly tied, full prime rib that came with the food provisions. The men cheered as Jean opened the package, holding the rack of ribs high above his head while dancing a spirited jig. The men ate well the following day, to be sure, and they spent the following evening preparing for their first mission, singing songs over bottles of cognac, smoking freshly rolled cigarettes, in between pouring over maps. Mac was now one of the guys. He fit right in with the French fighters, drinking hard, ready for the fight. He was a Maquisard, and he was raring to go on his first mission.
The band of Maquisards left early the next morning to incapacitate a train engine sitting on the track in the railway station in Avignon, on the Rhone River. The men took country roads through the mountains and across Provence to the city of Avignon, just north of Marseille. The plan was to create a diversion at one end of the city, bombing a food warehouse, while shortly thereafter, as everyone had run to the warehouse, bombing the train engine. The men were to meet back at the truck shortly thereafter, hoping to sneak out of town in the resulting confusion. Mac was to help Pierre get the train engine, while the others were assigned to the warehouse.
“When we hear the explosion at the warehouse, we wait five minutes, then we blow the engine,” said Pierre to Mac, as they approached the train yard. “Do you have any experience with setting charges, Harvard?”
“Yes, I have blown up my share of bridges in Sicily.”
“This is different, Harvard. You must place the charge precisely in the right spot under the train or it will accomplish nothing. I will show you this time. You cover me when I go under the train.”
Mac saw two German soldiers standing guard outside the chain link fence of the rail yard, their rifles strapped across their shoulders, cigarettes dangling from their lips. He and Pierre got as close as they dare, hiding behind a truck near the entrance of the yard. Within minutes, there was a huge explosion across town, which caused the soldiers to jump, to drop the cigarettes from their mouths, running toward the sound. As the sentries followed the noise of the explosion, Mac and Pierre casually walked through the gate to the yard, walking down the tracks to the huge engine sitting quietly in place.
“Cover me, Harvard,” said Pierre, as he bent beneath the front of the train engine. “Run!” yelled Pierre a minute later, as he headed for the gate.
An explosion strong enough to lift the engine off the tracks happened just as they got through the gate.
“Stop!” yelled one of the sentries in German, clearly deciding he should not have left his post in the first place.
Mac and Pierre ran down the street as two shots whizzed by their heads, but they just kept on running. The German did not follow, clearly not wanting to leave his post again. The band of Maquisards reached their truck all at the same time, jumping into their respective seats, hankering down for the long trip home. Pierre slapped Mac on the shoulder without word as he started up the truck and took off down the city streets.
“You did well, mon ami,” said Pierre, as they made their way out of Avignon. “No fear; that is good! Welcome to the Resistance!”
“I have been shot at before, Pierre. It is not that I have no fear. I just do what needs to be done.”
“Well, you did well, mon ami. It is good to have you with us!”
The band of Maquisards made it back to the farmhouse successfully, where they celebrated with their cognac, their rolled cigarettes, and inflated tales of their day's deeds. It was to be the first of many missions. In fact, over the course of the next eight months, through the D-day landings in June, and the fruition of Operation Dragoon at St. Tropez in August, this band of Maquisards were successful in disabling some one hundred train engines, they were able to destroy several railway stations, and they were able to direct Allied bombings to various munitions depots and storage facilities throughout the south of France.
Unfortunately, the success of the Maquis brought unwanted notoriety. In the spring of 1944, the Germans were devoting tremendous resources in their effort to find, and kill, the Maquis. But worse yet, the Vichy French put together hit squads, called the Milice, bent upon destroying the Maquis themselves, both to settle old scores, and to insulate themselves from the coming Allied invaders. The fighting between fellow Frenchmen became so fierce that it is remembered as “Mentalite terrible,” where the Milice and the Maquis were embroiled in an ever-increasing cycle of violence, in which Mac became intricately and personally involved.
By August of 1944, Mac was not only one of the Maquisards, but he was also the leader of his own Maquis. Pierre had taken a bullet from the Milice back in May because of an old grudge, a wound from which he would not die, but from which he would remain incapacitated, not allowing him to act as the Maquis leader. Mac took over the Maquis as the Allies were landing at St. Tropez, reporting on German troop positions, and continuing his efforts to thwart the German attempts to supply its army to the North. As the Allied troops drove up the Rhone valley, Mac left his Maquis, and joined his compatriots on their march north.
By the end of September, Mac had been ferried to England, on his way back to his family. He was no longer the young lawyer from Wall Street. He was a man who had seen death daily, who had tasted blood, who had killed repeatedly for his country. He was on his way home to assume his old life, but he was not sure if that would be possible. He had a week in London to get himself together for the flight back to New York and to his old life.
“Commander,” greeted General Eisenhower, as Mac was shown into the headquarters of the Supreme Allied Commander. “I am not sure you have met Mr. Churchill before, have you?” asked the General, as the rather portly Churchill got to his feet to salute Mac.
“Sir, it is a pleasure to see both you and Mr. Churchill.”
“You have been through a lot, Commander,” said Churchill, motioning Mac to sit in a chair beside him. “You have the immense gratitude of my country. We are aware of what you have done for us, and what you have done for the cause. I have a small token of our gratitude with me here today. I am bestowing upon you the War Medal, which is meant for service members of the British Commonwealth but based upon what you have done for our country, Parliament has decided to allow me to pin this medal on your chest. You deserve it son. Thank you, Commander Martin.”
“Thank you, Mr. Churchill, I will cherish it always.”
“I understand that you are eager to get home to your family, but there is one more person that wants to thank you on behalf of the British people. King George VI would like to meet you and shake your hand. You are expected at Buckingham Palace for dinner this evening. I will be joining you, as will General Eisenhower. The war is not over yet, but based upon the bravery and gumption of men like you, we will be victorious, of this, I am sure.”
“I am honored, sir. What is one to wear to visit a king?” laughed Mac.
“Your dress uniform will be fine, son. You have one, I take it.”
“I have just been fitted for a new one, sir. I assure you, I will be fully dressed for the king.”
Churchill laughed robustly, as Eisenhower smiled a fatherly smile. Mac entertained them for a time with his life as a Maquisard, a saboteur, and a spy in the service of the Allied Expeditionary Force. He got another laugh out of Churchill when he related how none of it may have happened because his Royal Air Force almost ended it all for him in the port of Naples before the United States even got into the War.
On his way out of the door to Eisenhower's office, Mac considered how he had entertained the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of England, the Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Forces, Pope Pius, and now the King of England.
“And now I am expected to go back to my desk on Wall Street, and my small apartment on the Upper West Side?”
As was his way, he decided to worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.