SS-Obersturmfuhrer Mann was a sadist. He knew he was a sadist and he enjoyed being a sadist. He delighted in carrying out reprisals against innocent French civilians for Resistance attacks. His whole body would quiver with satanic enjoyment when he gave the order “Fire!” to his squad of executioners, as they stood, with rifles raised, in front of a row of hostages, some terrified, some defiant. Before the killing, he would strut from hostage to hostage and stare into each face with venomous hatred, his face only inches from theirs. To female hostages he would give a sexual leer, and be so close that his stinking breath entered their nostrils like a poisonous gas. He pushed hard on the chests of the men, thrusting them back against a building wall and snapping their heads. Then came the obscenities uttered in high-pitched screams, his face red and contorted with anger. He considered that his talents for generating fear and terror in the French populace were wasted in the SS; he wanted a transfer to the Gestapo; he wanted to become a torture specialist.
Today, Mann was doing something that he was not very good at; using his brains and suffering physical discomfort. He was placing himself and a squad of twelve SS men in a potentially dangerous situation. They had orders to search a particular part of the Forêt de Paimpont for a Resistance hideout. The forest was thick, and the cold, damp weather ate into their bones as they moved at a snail’s pace. Obersturmfuhrer Mann did not like the situation. He liked the enemy to be already before him, unarmed and cowering. To have the enemy lurking behind any tree with a gun or a knife was definitely not to his liking. But orders had to be carried out.
“Where are we on the map, Hauptscharfuhrer Schmidt? Here or here?” asked Mann of his squad sergeant.
“Neither, Obersturmfuhrer. I believe we are in this gully, here,” replied Schmidt, incredulous at Mann’s incompetence.
“But we searched here over an hour ago. The map must be wrong or it’s a decoy. We may be subject to an ambush.” Mann’s beginnings of panic could be heard in his voice.
“No, I think the map has been right so far. There’s no reason to doubt it now,” said Schmidt, wanting to keep his leader calm.
The map in question had arrived at the Gestapo headquarters in Rennes a few days ago. It came by mail without a covering letter. The Gestapo examined it carefully, suspicious that it was a fake, like the many other false communications they received. The drawing of the map was very amateurish and obviously done in haste, as though the drawer was scared of being discovered making it. However, for a person who knew the Forêt de Paimpont reasonably well, there were sufficient details on the map to find its salient point, an “X”, with the words ‘Resistance Hideout’ next to it. But for a squad of SS soldiers the task was far from easy, that is why they had already spent four hours combing the woods and finding nothing. In addition to all his other faults, Mann lacked patience and was quick to blame others for not immediately finding “X”.
“Schmidt, I want some results and I want them now. You are not reading the map correctly; give it to me!” Mann pretended to study the map with intelligence, and then gave orders for a sharp change in direction to the left. Schmidt slowly shook his head but kept quiet.
The squad moved cautiously but not quietly through the dense woods. All would have failed an Indian tracking class. After a further hour of wandering haphazardly on Mann’s instructions, the group broke out into a clearing close to a large rock outcrop. They had accidentally stumbled on what they were looking for, but did not yet know it.
Mann called for a five-minute rest, but no sooner had he finished his command than a sharp crack was heard by the whole squad. Mann fell backwards, clutching his throat, blood pouring out between his fingers. The soldiers on open ground threw themselves reflexively into the prone position. Those near a rock or fallen timber took cover behind it, assuming the shot had come from somewhere higher up. A second shot rang out and Schmidt saw the flash of light that preceded it. He immediately opened fire, and ordered everyone to pour a hail of bullets into a bushy area surrounding what appeared to be a small opening to a cave. A figure, bent double, scurried from the bushes to a large rock fifteen feet from the cave entrance. From this rock, Philippe, the deputy leader of Jean’s Resistance group, was able to pin the SS down for a while, hoping that his other comrades, deeper in the cave, would hear the firing and formulate a defensive plan. He knew his group had spoken of using the chimney exit from the cave in such a contingency, if they had the time.
Schmidt was an experienced soldier and thought quickly. He sent three of his men back into the woods to move around the rock outcrop and outflank Philippe’s position. Philippe became hard pressed to return fire in two directions, and knew that his antiquated rifle would soon be out of ammunition. Meanwhile, Schmidt and two other SS advanced head-on to the cave entrance, gambling that if other Resistance fighters came out of the cave they could shoot them before they could be fired on. The gamble worked. Schmidt reached the cave and threw a hand-grenade into the entrance, then ducked to one side to await the explosion. Five seconds later the explosion forced all air out of the cave with a mighty, thunderous clap, followed by billowing clouds of rock particles, each a lethal bullet. Schmidt waited for the cloud to dissipate a little then threw another hand-grenade into the cave for good measure. The sound of the explosions reverberated through the forest, sending flocks of birds into the darkening sky, crying plaintively and warning all living things that danger was present. Philippe did not need the warning; he was dead already; a bullet had entered his heart, cleanly and almost painlessly.
An eerie silence prevailed for several minutes on the hillside around the cave, full of uncertainty and tenseness. Schmidt was the first to enter the cave and quickly moved to one side so as not to be a silhouette against the light outside. He could see nothing. The darkness was total and he feared that which he could not see. Eventually his eyes took on their night vision capabilities and objects slowly took shape, although the suspended rock dust prevented exact definition.
He saw three bodies, each lying as a rag-doll, lifeless and grotesque. Two clutched Sten guns, and part of their clothing had been ripped off by the blast. The third lay directly under a hole high up in the roof at the back of the cave. A soft beam of light filtered down to the body as though it were inviting the dead man to escape up it. No doubt the man had tried to climb the rock wall to this escape exit but had run out of time. Glancing around the cave, Schmidt saw the remnants of a sparse living area; a shredded mattress, tin cans, an enamel basin, a smashed table and chair, a couple of partially burned books, spoiled fruit and potatoes. It was the saddest of scenes; one that would make a normal person churn inside with a massive depression. But Schmidt was not normal, he was hardened to such scenes, a veteran of the winter campaign on the Russian front from where he had returned, wounded, but still capable of soldiering in a softer theater of war.
There was nothing further to be done in the cave, so Schmidt went outside and ordered a final sweep of the woods in the immediate area in case other Resistance fighters remained. Two soldiers carried Philippe’s body into the cave and dumped it, unceremoniously. Mann’s dead body posed a more difficult problem; should it just be left in the open or buried in a shallow grave? Schmidt looked down at Mann’s upper body. He still clutched his neck and pints of blood covered his uniform. His eyes were open and rolled upwards, his mouth contorted with shock and surprise. He looked as ugly in death as he had been in life. Schmidt had despised Mann for his incompetence and his cowardice, so he gave him two swift kicks in the side as he decided what to do with his body.
“We’ll carry the bastard back with us. HQ commanders will need to see how he died and that we didn’t murder him. They’ll probably give him a medal,” said Schmidt to his squad, gathered around the body in a circle.
The squad were all for leaving Mann where he lay, instead of painfully hauling his corpse back through the woods in the dwindling daylight. But they kept their thoughts quiet.
* * * * *
Marcel had heard the gun fire and the two explosions when he was about a mile away from the cave. He immediately stopped walking, then left the forest path to take up cover in some densely packed pine trees. He stood still and listened. Apart from the flocks of squawking crows that flew overhead, the forest was quiet. Marcel’s first thought was that German soldiers were on an exercise in the forest, maybe in teams, one against the other. But in that case, the gun fire would have been more prolonged, and why only two explosions which had seemed muffled, as though they had come from under ground. He decided to remain hidden for the time being and see what developed. As he waited he became more apprehensive; something was radically wrong; his stomach told him so.
After twenty minutes he heard voices coming from the direction of the path, then, through the trees, he caught a glimpse of a soldier, rifle at the ready, peering nervously left and right into the dense trees. More soldiers followed, strung out so as not to give a concentrated target to any enemy. Bringing up the rear, was a group of four carrying a makeshift stretcher and cursing under the weight of their burden. Marcel saw the bloody figure of SS Obersturmfuhrer Mann on the stretcher, and knew that the gun fire had not been part of an exercise. He waited a further ten minutes before regaining the path and continuing on to the cave. His sense of foreboding was immense.
He reached the cave and cautiously entered, his heart in his mouth. He took a flashlight from his supply pack and swung it slowly around the floor, the walls and the ceiling. He counted four shapeless masses and went over to each one in turn. None had a pulse. None moved when gently shook. He stood up and gave a deep sigh and the sign of the cross. The bodies were those of Jean, Philippe, Pierre and Roger. Jean in particular would be greatly missed, not only as a fellow fighter but as a personal friend of Marcel’s. Later on, Marcel would remember the good times they had shared in London; the sight-seeing, the drinking, the women friends, the jokes.
But this was no time to become maudlin and distracted. Four deaths in his circuit would cause a major operational problem in regard to carrying out Operation Earthquake. In fact, Marcel had come to the cave to make final plans for the operation. The previous night, Igor had heard from Grendon that Earthquake was set for the night of Sunday, April 5. Lancaster bombers would be over the target at 2100 hrs, unless Grendon advised otherwise. Weather could be a factor that changed this time. Marcel had to find four replacements quickly, and train them in the space of two days.
Although that was a major problem, he had a more immediate one; what should he do with the bodies in the cave? His options were clear. He could dig graves in the cave floor or the forest, but that would take a lot of time and effort, even if he had a serviceable shovel. He could go for help and return with proper tools for the burial. That would be risky because by morning the Germans would probably return with some sharpshooters, place them under cover, and watch the cave for the arrival of further Resistance fighters. Marcel decided that the best option would be to cover the bodies with loose rocks, to prevent scavenging by forest animals, then to return in a week or so, after Earthquake, to perform a decent burial.
Using just his hands, he covered the four bodies as best he could, and left the cave with their sorrowful souls still hovering in the dusty air. It would be completely dark within twenty minutes and Marcel was thankful for its protective cloak. As he walked, he wrestled with how to rebuild his team for the attack. He decided that Annette would definitely have to become a part of it; she already knew the plan and had seen the tunnel; she was enthusiastic and aggressive when she had to be. Early on in the search for a team, Georges, the Rennes Resistance leader, had mentioned the possibility of using two women fighters. Perhaps these brave persons could now be persuaded to be replacements; he was sure that Georges could vouch for their courage and capability. So that left one more to be found.
A flash of brilliance took Marcel to the name Lieutenant James Wainwright. Although he was an unknown quantity to Marcel, he believed he had seen plenty of action, albeit of quite a different, traditional kind. He looked athletic, and Marcel had seen a certain recklessness in Wainwright’s eyes. Two days should be sufficient to teach him the rudiments of planting plastic explosives, firing a Sten and digging a knife into enemy ribs. Anyway, thought Marcel, Wainwright might as well do something useful while waiting for the Royal Navy to send another MGB over to pick him up.
Marcel’s mind moved on to another grave worry as his thoughts tumbled around his head. Betrayal! Another betrayal, and that makes three! First there was the arms drop ambush. Who tipped the Germans off? Who was responsible for the subsequent deaths of seven Resistance fighters. Secondly, how did the Gestapo pig Eichmann know that Annette would be walking on a particular path in the forest at a particular time on a particular day? Thirdly, there was today’s disaster; how did the German’s find the cave hideout so quickly? Jean had not mentioned seeing any past enemy activity in his part of the forest, yet suddenly a whole patrol of soldiers must have homed in on the location of the cave in a matter of hours. You cannot do that in such a densely wooded area as the Forêt de Paimpont unless you have a guide or maybe some written instructions. Someone is a collaborator, someone I know well, or who is just an acquaintance. Maybe another member of my circuit, or Jean’s circuit, or even the Rennes circuit? Maybe a person often present in La Chatte, or Le Chien, eavesdropping on our planning meetings? Could even be Pierre Chirac, the owner of Le Chien; he’s always asking questions, wanting to know what’s going on. And he often talks at length to the Germans in his cafe as well. I’d say he was a suspect; definitely a suspect. But I don’t really know. Mon Dieu! If we do have a collaborator in our midst, does that person know about Operation Earthquake? Are we already compromised? Good as dead? How do I tighten security, or is it too late? Merde! Merde!
As soon as Marcel reached the farm, he took Erwan into the barn and told him and Wainwright about the slaughter in the cave hideout. Erwan took the bad news calmly; he was no stranger to loss and he, himself, had low expectations of surviving the war. Wainwright was beginning to realize the immense risks that ordinary French citizens were taking every day to help the Allies. For them, there was no reward, no medals and no end in sight.
Jimmy jumped at the chance to be a part of Operation Earthquake. At first he thought he should inform SOE Operations Dartmouth about his intended involvement and request permission, but then he envisaged the bureaucratic paperwork going up and down the chain of command; that would take a month, by which time the operation would have taken place. Best to keep quiet. It would be just a little moonlighting exercise for him.
Marcel visited Annette later that day, and she became very upset on hearing the news about Jean and his men. For her, each loss of a Resistance friend took a heavy toll on her emotions, but she knew that if she were now required to become an integral part of Earthquake she would have to shut the heartache out. She had two days to steel herself.
Marcel had good news from Georges. The two additions from his circuit were available, making nine men and three women. The group was set and ready.