Friday, June 2
The second attempt to visit Monsieur Jean-Philippe Laurier started just as the first had: the same disguises, the same route. They passed a few more patrols than they had the previous day. Peter wondered if that was a result of their sabotage work the night before.
When Peter arrived at the Laurier farm, he walked right up to the front door and knocked. He trusted that Jacques was already safely in the garage, hidden from sight. The door was opened immediately, and Peter suspected that Laurier had watched him walk from the street to the door.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Peter said cheerfully.
Laurier looked over Peter, sizing him up. He didn’t say anything for a time; he just stared. Peter stared back. Laurier was tall for a Frenchman—taller than Peter by half a head. His hair was gray and thick. All of his hair was like that: the hair on his head, his eyebrows, his full beard, the hair on his arms. He appeared stolid and strong—strong both mentally and physically. Finally, Laurier smiled slightly. “Can I help you?”
“I was hoping to meet with Monsieur Jean-Philippe Laurier. Is that you?”
“It is.” Laurier crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway.
“Good. Could I speak to you for a few minutes?”
“Regarding what?”
“Vixi puellis nuper idoneus et militavi.”
Laurier straightened and stepped aside to let Peter enter. “Ah, yes. Non sine gloria. Please come in. You are welcome in my home, although I do insist on all my guests disarming themselves.”
“Is there a special reason for that?” Peter asked, entering the Frenchman’s home. Peter didn’t like to part with his weapons, especially since he was ready to trust Toussaint and Marie, leaving him suspicious of Laurier, the third and last agent.
“Experience,” Laurier answered. Peter had hoped his host would elaborate more, but instead he pointed to a large wooden box. Peter reluctantly took out his trench knife and his Colt M1911 and placed them in Laurier’s box. Peter would have preferred to keep them, but he wanted Monsieur Laurier to be cooperative, and he knew Jacques was only a few yards away. Relax, he told himself. You’ve been planning this since McDougall’s briefing.
Laurier led Peter into his front room. It was what Peter and Jacques had expected to happen. There were several bookcases, a desk, three large armchairs, and two tables. All the furniture was made of dark wood that needed polishing. Both tables and the desk supported stacks of books, magazines, and other papers. The house smelled musty and was rundown, matching the home’s outside appearance.
“This is the first time someone has come to me in person. Would I be correct in assuming the reason for this unexpected visit has to do with an upcoming invasion?”
Peter nodded.
“Will it be in Calais?”
Peter nodded again.
“And you would like me to tell you what I’ve observed of the German defenses and troop concentrations?”
Peter nodded the third time, with a smile. “That’s exactly right, sir.”
Laurier motioned for his guest to be seated.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well, if I’m going to tell you all about the current German defenses, I’d like a drink.” Laurier left the room, and Peter heard a few cupboards opening. Laurier returned carrying a tray with a nearly empty, thick green bottle of red wine and two full wine goblets. Peter looked at Laurier very carefully when he returned, but his host didn’t seem to have retrieved any weapons. Laurier handed a glass to Peter, balanced the tray on a stack of books resting on the desk, then sat down and appeared to relax as he sipped his wine.
“All right, then, when will this invasion come?” Laurier asked.
“I’m not supposed to disclose that, sir. Truth be told, I don’t have the exact day, just the week.” Peter set the wine glass down on a nearby end table without drinking any of it. He’d heard people say a little alcohol was good for the nerves, and Peter was certainly feeling nervous, but he didn’t plan to start a drinking habit, especially not while on assignment.
“Do you not care for my wine? It’s vintage 1928—I’ve been saving this bottle for quite some time. I’ve only one other of this quality, and I’m saving that for the liberation.”
“I am sincerely grateful for your generosity, sir, but I don’t drink alcohol. That, and I came here for information, not fine French dining. I think it’s best if I keep my mind clear.” Peter gently steered the conversation toward business, ignoring the knot in his stomach and hoping he hadn’t offended his source. “Do you know how many troops are stationed within, say, an hour of the beaches?”
“It will take more than an hour to establish a beachhead, I would think.”
“Yes, monsieur, but we’d like to know how many troops we might be dealing with in the first critical hour. I’ve got a map in my pocket; I was hoping you could help me fill in where the German Army is currently most concentrated. Then we’d like you to keep us informed of any changes that happen between now and the invasion.”
Monsieur Laurier nodded his consent. Peter took the map from his pocket and cleared a spot on the coffee table between them. He stacked a few books together and put them on the edge of the table, accidentally knocking over a pile of papers when he set the books too close to them. Peter bent down to pick them up and noticed the papers he had scattered included a large pile of ration cards. Enough to feed several downed airmen for days at a time, or enough to be a generous reward granted for cooperation with the issuing authority, Peter thought. He wondered how Jacques could have missed them in his earlier search. He looked at them more closely, fingered the spot where his pistol should have been, then looked up just in time to see Laurier swinging a large wrench at his head.
Peter threw his elbow up and caught most of the force with his forearm, slowing the wrench slightly before it crashed into the side of his head. The momentum knocked him over into the table, and it and Peter crashed to the hardwood floor, scattering paper, ration cards, and books everywhere.
Laurier attempted a second blow. He stood over Peter and brought the wrench down with considerable speed. Peter picked up the coffee table and used it to knock Laurier’s arm away. It didn’t make him drop the weapon, but it did stop him from hitting Peter, at least for a few seconds. Laurier switched hands and swung again. Peter countered by kicking him, but Laurier hit Peter’s shin with the wrench. Peter kicked him again with his other leg, forcing Laurier a few feet away and stalling him long enough for Peter to get back on his feet. He picked up the coffee table and used it as a shield to block the next series of blows. It turned out to be a decent shield, and a decent weapon. Peter used the table to hit Laurier’s hand again, this time leaving him uncoordinated long enough for Peter to lunge at the wrench and wrestle it away. Laurier grunted and kicked Peter’s shin, right where the wrench had struck. Peter lost his balance, and both men crashed to the floor.
Weaponless, Laurier snarled angrily and grabbed Peter’s hand that held the wrench and slammed it down onto the floor. Then he did it again and again. The third time was too much. The wrench flew out of Peter’s hand and slid behind him across the floor. Laurier tried to get past Peter to the weapon, but Peter drove his knee into Laurier’s abdomen and pushed him the other way.
Laurier grabbed Peter’s hair to force his head back but only managed to tear the wig off. It surprised Laurier. So did Peter’s fist, which connected swiftly and firmly with his jaw at about the same time. Laurier was strong, but Peter suspected the man’s endurance did not match his strength. Still, he managed to grab Peter’s real hair and slam his head into the floor a few times before Peter finally gained the upper hand in their struggle. Peter briefly remembered the advice an OSS instructor had given him a few weeks before: in hand-to-hand combat, there is usually only one rule—kill or be killed.
Peter was about to punch his opponent again when he heard a crash and saw Laurier go completely limp. Peter looked up in surprise and saw Jacques fingering the broken wine bottle with a look of distaste.
“I didn’t hear you come in; nice timing,” Peter said as he sat up, panting. “But I really had everything completely under control.”
“Of course you did, but I was getting a little bored waiting around.” Jacques held out his hand, and Peter gladly accepted the help back to his feet.
They tied Jean-Philippe Laurier to one of his large armchairs and gagged him so he wouldn’t be able to shout if he regained consciousness while they were still in the neighborhood. They wanted Laurier to tell the Nazis that American agents were snooping around Calais, asking about troop concentrations, but not until they were very far away. Jacques pocketed the ration cards. “Never know when we’ll have unexpected guests parachute in on us,” he said by way of explanation.
Peter slowly sorted through the papers on the desk and carefully picked a lock on one of the drawers while Jacques looked around the kitchen and bedrooms. None of the papers in French were significant, but Peter kept the ones in German, fearing his limited comprehension of the German language would lead to inaccurate sorting should he try to do it himself. Peter also went through the papers on the end table, where he had set his wine glass, and noticed something new: a white powder on one edge of the glass. At about that same time, Jacques returned from the kitchen holding a small brown jar.
“I think he was going to drug you,” Jacques said.
Peter nodded in agreement. “He left a bit of residue on the glass. I guess when that didn’t work, he moved to plan B. I don’t know if it included dragging me out to the pond so he could drown me, but you were right about him trying to bash my head in.” Peter folded the papers and put them in his pocket.
“Try? Judging by the blood on the side of your face, it looks like he succeeded.”
Peter put his hand up to the right side of his face. Jacques was right; it was bloody. And swollen. And painful to touch. Peter winced. He pulled up his pant leg to examine his other bruise and found plenty of blood there too.
Jacques went into the hallway and came back with a hat. He tossed it to Peter. “Put that on; a face as swollen and bloody as yours might attract more attention than we want on the way home.”
Peter wiped most of the blood off his face, put his wig and the hat on, collected his weapons, and hobbled back to the bicycles. It was a long ride home, partially because every push of the pedal with his right leg made him dizzy. He moved slowly, but even that pace was a challenge. Jacques seemed to understand what was going on, and he adjusted his speed to match Peter’s.
The farmhouse was empty when they returned. Genevieve had gone into town with their neighbor again. Jacques offered Peter something to clean his wounds, but Peter was too tired to bother with it just then. He sat down in the living room and closed his eyes. After a few minutes, he drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Moments later, Peter woke when he heard the front door slam shut. Genevieve had just come home with a new load of dirty laundry. She dropped it on the floor when she saw Peter.
“Peter, what happened?” she asked, kneeling by his side.
“His head came in contact with a large wrench and then with a hardwood floor a few times,” Jacques said from the kitchen.
“And where were you when all this was happening?” She sounded angry.
“Emptying the oil from the man’s automobile and putting water in the fuel tank.”
“Jacques, you’re supposed to be better backup than that. What if the man had killed Peter while you were playing with his car?” She started to get up to give her brother a proper scolding.
Peter touched her arm gently. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Well, it looks awful, and I haven’t even seen it all yet.” She carefully removed Peter’s hat and fingered the cut. “There’s blood everywhere.”
“Heads just bleed a lot. And there’s not blood everywhere. None on my arms or my chest or my legs.”
“No, there is blood on your leg; it soaked through your pants.” She got up and walked past Jacques, who was standing in the doorway to the kitchen eating a slice of bread as he watched, amusement showing in his eyes. Genevieve reappeared with a bowl of water, soap, and a rag.
“I can do it,” Peter said. He grabbed the rag and dipped it in the water.
“No, you stay still and let me.”
Peter didn’t argue with her. Jacques finished his bread and said he was going to go milk the cows.
Genevieve started wiping the blood off Peter’s face with the rag.
“That hurts. Can you start with the leg instead?”
“Ripping the scab off your shin won’t feel much better,” she said. But she did it anyway. She knelt down beside Peter’s right leg and rolled his pants up above the wound, slowly peeling the fabric off the wound.
“You’re right—it doesn’t feel much better,” he said.
“It will only get worse if we don’t take care of it now.”
Peter grunted a hesitant agreement.
“Your contact certainly blew his cover,” Genevieve said.
He nodded then stopped when he realized the motion aggravated the pain in his head. “Yes, but it wasn’t really blown until I escaped. He could have radioed in that he was met by an agent, worked with him, then saw him being arrested later that day.”
“A report like that would have been suspicious.”
“I suppose he thought I knew something worth risking his cover for. I’m fairly certain his Nazi bosses would agree. If you were he, or any other German spy, for that matter, how much would you risk to prevent a successful invasion?”
“I would never work for the Nazis,” Genevieve said. “But I see your point. The Germans are in power now, and the odds are in their favor when the invasion comes. Anyone voluntarily working for them has a strong motivation for keeping the status quo.”
Genevieve turned back to her healing work and was as gentle and thorough as she could be. The soap stung, but after a few minutes, the blood was only a small oozing line, and Peter could see what his wound actually looked like. There was a large oval bruise, and the skin had broken at its center.
“What are all these scars from?” Genevieve asked, fingering a series of scars on Peter’s ankle and calf.
“Shrapnel in Sicily.”
“Go on,” she said when he stopped talking.
“I used to drive tanks. We had gotten used to fighting Italians, and they weren’t putting up much of a fight. Then we ran into some German artillery. My tank was hit before we really knew they were in the area. The controls stopped working, and our lieutenant told us to get out of there. I was last in line. Our ammo started exploding when I was halfway up the ladder. I barely remember it, but my lieutenant reached down and pulled me out. I was in pretty bad shape, I guess—pieces of hot metal sticking into my back, clothes on fire. And German artillery hitting all around us.”
“Was this the biggest piece of shrapnel?” Genevieve asked, pointing to the back of Peter’s ankle.
“It’s the biggest scar, but I think it was probably one of the smaller pieces originally; they just overlooked it for a few days.”
“They missed a piece of shrapnel sticking out of your ankle? I thought American doctors were better than that.”
“Well, they got twenty-two out of the twenty-three pieces—they weren’t doing too bad considering how many other casualties they were working on.” He watched her brow furrow in concentration as she studied his leg.
“I only count six scars here. Where are the others?”
“Some are on my other leg. The rest are spread all the way up to my back.”
Genevieve wrapped a cloth around Laurier’s work to keep it from bleeding any more. Then she moved to Peter’s face.
She had a light touch, but it still hurt. Peter gritted his teeth. He would have preferred to sleep but didn’t feel he could tell her to go away and leave him alone. Time after time, she rinsed the rag, sopped up some of the blood clinging to his hair, and rinsed the rag again.
“This water is turning pink,” she said when she was nearly done. She got up to change it then came back to finish the job and remove the fake beard Jacques had given Peter earlier that morning. “Well, any scar will be hidden by your hair once the swelling goes down. Unless the cut on your ear doesn’t heal properly.”
“It won’t be the first scar on my face.”
“That’s right.” Her fingers found the scar on the other side of Peter’s head. “Where did you get this one?”
“It’s a souvenir from my last trip to France.”
“Scars are odd things to collect, don’t you think? When in foreign countries, most people collect postcards or dolls or coins. What is it from?”
“A bullet.” He watched her flinch ever so slightly as he spoke.
“That’s awful.”
“Not really. It would only be awful if it had killed me. But it didn’t.”
Genevieve leaned closer to glance from the old scar to the new injury. He smiled at her careful study. She smiled back then shyly asked, “Tell me, Peter, do you have a sweetheart back in Idaho waiting for you?”
Peter laughed, remembering his few pathetic high school attempts to impress girls. “No, no girlfriend. I guess I never found anyone that was worth the effort.”
“Does it take a lot of effort in America?” Genevieve asked.
“Not always, I suppose. I just saw my brother and my friends crash and burn enough that I never wanted to try.”
“And after the war, do you plan to find a sweetheart?” She busied herself cleaning the rag in the bowl.
“Well, yeah, I’m a horrible cook. If I don’t find a wife, I might starve to death.”
“Is cooking the only thing wives are good for?”
Peter smirked. “Cleaning too, I guess.” He was joking, and Genevieve knew it. Still, a comment like that deserved some type of punishment. She laughed and playfully punched his forearm. Peter inhaled sharply.
“How many other wounds do you have?” she asked after she rolled up Peter’s shirt to see the bruise left by the wrench’s first contact with him.
“That’s the last one. And it’s not a big deal. No blood even, just a little swelling.”
She looked at it again and shook her head. “Get some rest, Peter,” was all she said. Then she walked away, leaving Peter to wonder what, if anything, their conversation had meant. It surprised him that despite his earlier desire to sleep, he now found himself wishing Genevieve had stayed.