“No. I shot a rifle—for a morning—when I was in the air service in 1916. The only time I’ve been around pistols is making movies.”
“It’s a Walther,” Degrave said. “German officer’s side arm.” The pistol had a bare snout, like a Luger, but the barrel was shorter. He broke the magazine free, handed it to Casson with a box of 9mm bullets, and showed him how to load it.
They climbed down the embankment of a stream. Degrave found a rock, smooth black basalt, and propped it up at the edge of the water. He paced off a distance down the stream and turned to Casson.
“All right, try to hit it.”
Casson pointed the gun, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, the impact blew some dirt around a few inches from the rock.
He tried again, this time he hit the water.
“Once more.”
He held his breath, squeezed off the shot, same result.
“Let me try,” Degrave said. He took the gun from Casson, held it loosely at his side, brought it up level and, without coming to a full stop, pulled the trigger. A white chip appeared on the rock.
“Should I keep trying?”
Degrave handed the gun back. “Just keep it with you,” he said.
They drove into the late afternoon, Casson behind the wheel for a time, following the edges of the Rhône valley into the hills of Provence. There were two routes to Paris from the south: straight up to Lyons and Dijon, the ancient trade route; or west into the Massif Centrale, the Auvergne, then due north into the city. The mountain route had hairpin turns and steep grades, the valley route had police. Degrave’s idea was to work just east of the Rhône, village to village, on back roads.
They stopped in Carpentras and bought bread and cheese and pears and a few bottles of mineral water, enough for three days. When the sun was low on the horizon, they parked the truck and sat on the running board. Degrave cut up some of the bread and cheese and spread it on a sheet of newspaper. “We dine in style,
chez nous,
” he said. He carved a bad piece out of a pear, sliced a half off, and handed it to Casson.
“Not too bad,” Casson said. It was hard and burned by frost, but very sweet.
Degrave finished his share and wiped his hand on the newspaper. “I hope this is all worth it,” he said.
“There’s one thing I’ve been wondering about,” Casson said. “We’re giving them a thousand rounds for each of these guns but, according to Vasilis, the cartridge is hard to find. So, when they’ve used up the ammunition, that’s that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You never know what they’re going to come up with—or they may have to come back to us for more. Fact is, we don’t want them to go to war. A thousand rounds doesn’t mean much in a military action—the
Modèle 38
empties a thirty-two-round magazine in a few seconds. What you can use it for is assassination, attacks on convoys or banks. At that level of
résistance,
a submachine gun with a thousand rounds will raise hell.”
Degrave cut up another pear and handed a piece to Casson. “The sad fact is, the FTP is the best fighting group in France. They’re organized, disciplined, they have clandestine experience, and they control the unions. They’re brave. And cold-blooded— reprisals don’t concern them. We know what they can do, we’ve been enemies for twenty years.”
“And now, allies.”
Degrave smiled. “
Raison
d’état,
as old as the world. I’ll tell you something, Casson. People in my trade have to live with some hard truths. One of them is that sometimes you want men and women to fight for freedom, sometimes you don’t.”
Degrave finished his pear, worked the porcelain cap free on one of the bottles, took a long drink, and handed it to Casson.
The water was cold, and tasted good despite the bitter mineral. “I’m going to sleep for a while,” Degrave said. “Four hours, then wake me up. You have guard duty until then.”
Casson tucked the Walther in his belt, back where it couldn’t be seen. Then he leaned against the door of the truck and watched the sun set.
16 JANUARY.
He woke up suddenly, cold and stiff, with no idea where he was or what he was doing—for a moment he thought he was on location, making a film. No, he was lying across the front seat of a truck, breathing gasoline vapor, the night beyond the windshield black and starless. He forced himself to a sitting position, cranked the window down. Degrave was standing by the front fender. “Almost dawn,” he said.
Casson took a sip from the water bottle, spit it out, then drank. He lit a cigarette, and rubbed his eyes. “My turn to drive,” he said.
The narrow dirt roads zigzagged northwest, northeast. Sometimes they had to drive south. The villages got darker and quieter as they neared the center of the country, people stared from doorways. There were no cars on the road, sometimes a horse and cart, once a wagon loaded down with cut lavender.
At seven in the morning they stopped so Degrave could probe the gas tank with a stick. “Not good,” he said, checking the level against a mark he’d made the day before. “Let’s go another hour, then fill up.”
Casson tried to save gas, pushed the clutch in going downhill, which worked until he tried to slow down. Third gear screamed as the pedal came up, and he had to double-clutch to ram the thing into second. Still too fast. A sudden curve, he fought the wheel, the back end started to swing. He hit the brake, the pedal went to the floor. Degrave swore. Casson tried again, pumping gently until he felt it grab. At last the road flattened out and Casson let the truck coast to a stop. His hands were shaking.
Degrave stared out his window, into the gorge at the bottom of the hill. “Probably all kinds of old trucks down there,” he said. He turned to Casson. “I’ll drive, if you like.”
“Next village,” Casson said.
The next village was Beaufort-St.-Croix. An old woman in a shawl hobbled past the parked truck, a basket over her arm. She stared at them—who are you?
Don’t stop here.
Degrave drove to the other end of the village and pulled over. By the road was a wayfarer’s shrine, a cross of woven willow twigs on a wooden box atop a post; inside, a carved saint, his white robes and red wounds faded by snow and sunlight.
Degrave unscrewed the cap on the gasoline drum, ran a rubber hose from the drum to the gas tank, sucked on the line, and eventually got it to flow—siphoning worked better in theory than in practice. He spat gasoline on the ground when he was done, then got behind the wheel and started up the mountain road. Carefully, he maneuvered the truck over a long patch of black ice, then stood on the brake as they sped down a steep grade. “Another day of this and it’s behind us,” he said.
Casson leaned over to get a better angle in the rearview mirror. On the way into Beaufort he’d seen a black Citroën appear and disappear as the road curved. It could certainly go faster than ten miles an hour, but didn’t bother to pass.
“You still have the Citroën?” he said a few minutes later.
Degrave looked up at the mirror. “Yes.”
“What’s he want?”
“Maybe nothing.”
He accelerated, a minute went by, then he sped up a little more. “Stays right there,” he said. “Since Beaufort.”
“Earlier,” Casson said.
The road widened and Degrave let the truck roll to a stop. “Get out for a minute,” he said.
Casson stood by the side of the road, unbuttoning his fly. As he stared down at the weeds, the Citroën went by, very slow and determined. When he got back in the truck Degrave said, “About nineteen, the driver. There are three of them, they’re wearing armbands.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
They waited twenty minutes, plenty of time for the Citroën to go on its way, to disappear.
Degrave threw his cigarette away and looked at his watch. “Enough,” he said. “If they are actually going somewhere, we’ll never see them again.” He got behind the wheel, coaxed the engine to life, and raced it in neutral a few times.
“It sounds to me,” Casson said, “like we have unwatered gasoline.”
“We do. You wouldn’t believe what I had to pay in Nice to get it. Nowadays it’s like buying wine, you have to know the vintage.”
Degrave turned the truck onto the road and moved off slowly. Almost immediately they began to climb, past sloping meadows used to graze livestock in the spring and summer. Five minutes passed, then ten more. Casson kept looking at his watch. The road crested a hill, then turned left. The truck slowed as they climbed a steep curve past stone barns on the mountainside.
“I like this better than the south,” Degrave said.
“So do I.”
“Ever make a movie here?”
“No.”
“Nobody bothers with it, the Dauphine.”
“What would you do—lovers on the run?”
“Why not?”
Casson shrugged. “You ever know any lovers on the run?”
Degrave laughed. “No, now that you mention it.”
“And, if they ran, they wouldn’t run here.”
“They’d run to Paris.”
“That’s right,” Casson said. “And there goes the scenery.”
Fifteen minutes. Casson had another look in the mirror. Black and low, long hood, flat top on the passenger compartment, running boards swept gracefully into panels that curved over the front wheels. A Citroën 7C—you saw them everywhere.
“Still with us,” Casson said.
Degrave sighed. “I know,” he said.
The Citroën followed them around another curve, then, when the road ran level, it sped up and drove alongside the truck. From the passenger seat window, an arm waved for them to pull over.
Degrave took his foot off the gas. “All right,” he said, sounding tired. “Let’s get it over with.”
The truck rolled to a stop. On both sides of the road were hay fields cut down in autumn; up ahead, an old forest with large, bare oak trees. The Citroën pulled up a few feet away, blocking a sudden escape.
Nineteen was about right, Casson thought as the driver got out. The second might be a little older—tall and fat, wearing a ski sweater with a snowflake pattern. The third was younger, maybe the driver’s younger brother. They all wore armbands, white initials stitched on a blue field—MF, for
Milice Française.
The driver, clearly the leader, was working on a mustache and goatee, but he was fair-haired and it was going to take a long time. Village lothario, Casson thought. The others waited by the car while the leader approached the truck. He had his hand in the pocket of his jacket—more than a hand, a revolver, from the way he strutted. Perhaps something Papa brought home from the war.
“Milice,”
Degrave said. One of Pétain’s militia units—
La
Jeunesse
de Maréchal, La Jeunesse Patriote,
they had all sorts of names. Dedicated foes of France’s enemies: Jews, Bolsheviks—outriders for the Tartar hordes from the east, just waiting to sweep across Europe.
The leader stood at the door of the truck and stared up at Degrave.
“Good morning,” Degrave said. He said it well, Casson thought.
You’re a kid and I’m a grown man and there can only be courtesy
between us.
Casson saw the leader’s chin rise. “We’re on patrol up here,” he said. “We watched you in Beaufort.”
“Yes?”
“That’s right. Saw you put gas in your truck.”
“And so?”
“We could use some ourselves.”
“Hey, look,” Degrave said, man-to-man. “We’re taking some stuff up to Paris—you understand what I mean? We don’t mind donating some money to the cause, but gasoline is hard to get, and we have to go all the way up north.”
“What stuff?”
“Sardines, this trip. We won’t miss a couple of cases.”
“I guess you won’t.” He laughed. It meant he wanted money and the sardines and the gasoline too. All of it.
“Take a look in the back,” Degrave said. Then, to Casson, “Show him what we have.”
The leader made a gesture with his head and said “
Allez,
Jacquot.” His pal in the ski sweater walked toward the back of the truck. Casson jumped down to the road and went around the other side. He started to untie the rope that held the tarpaulin together. Jacquot stood next to him, too close. “Get a move on,” he said. “We don’t have all day.”
Casson pulled the tarpaulin open. “See for yourself,” he said. Jacquot put a foot on the iron step, climbed onto the truck bed, and started to inspect the merchandise. The crates were stenciled
CON-SERVERIE TEJADA—BEZIERS. Sardines en Boîtes.
Suddenly the leader started talking—Casson couldn’t hear the words but the tone was tough and impatient. Degrave’s answer was soothing. From inside the truck, Jacquot called, “You better get up here and help me unload this stuff.” He was standing in shadow, one hand resting on the stacked crates.
“I’ll be right there.”
Casson never knew who shot first or why, but there were five or six reports from the front of the truck. Somebody shouted, a car door opened, somebody screamed “Maurice!” When Casson saw Jacquot’s hand move, he grabbed for the Walther, pulled it free of his belt, and forced the hammer back with his thumb. In front, a shot, then another, from a different gun. Jacquot’s hand came out from under his sweater, Casson fired twice, then twice more. Jacquot grunted, there was a flash in the shadows. Casson ducked away and ran around to the front of the truck. On the road by the Citroën, somebody lay on top of a rifle.
Casson crouched down, edged around the hood until he could see the other side. He heard somebody cough. It sounded strange in the silence. He leaned out as far as he dared, the gun ready in his hand. The leader was sitting with his back propped against the rear tire, breathing hard, one hand inside his shirt.
“Casson?” That was Degrave, his voice hoarse and thick. Casson stepped out from behind the hood. The leader stared at him, then turned away and closed his eyes. Casson could see his chest rise and fall as he tried to breathe.
Casson opened the door, there were two holes in the metal. Degrave was white. He swallowed once, then said, “I need help, I think.” There was blood on his shirt. For a moment he stared out into the distance. “We have to go,” he said. “But first, make sure here.”