The Caves of Périgord (27 page)

Berger eyed him steadily. “You don’t know much about the secret world, do you?”

“I suppose not.” Manners felt very small and rather lost, as if the war he had been fighting had taken place in some altogether different dimension. But he put his question again. “Why are you helping me to meet him?”

“First, Hilaire told me to do it, and I trust Hilaire. Second, if any
arms are going to the Communists, at least I’ll know when, where, and who has them. Third, even if this Marat won’t use his supplies against the Germans, more and more of his people will know he has them and will want him to use them. Some of them are French first, Communists second.”

“This is a vipers’ nest you people have built for yourselves.”

“True, but we had some help from Hitler. And from Stalin.” Berger closed his eyes and grimaced. When he opened them his eyes were clear but curiously empty. “It’s time you met Stalin’s representative in this part of France.”

Marat was of average height, thin and balding, wearing round spectacles and smoking black tobacco in an old and much-charred wooden pipe. A beret and scarf and cloth shopping bag were on the battered table at which he sat reading a book as if he were just another local waiting for a train. He looked up as Berger steered Manners inside, and peered at the Englishman.

“Are you the one that helped pull the fireman from that train you blew up?” he began. Manners nodded.

Marat rose and shook him by the hand. A surprisingly strong grip. “Then I thank you for that in the name of the railway men’s union. And I congratulate you on a busy start. Le Buisson will be out of action for weeks. Your Winston Churchill should be pleased.” From the shopping bag, he pulled a dark bottle and three glasses.

Berger interrupted. “I’ll go outside and watch. You don’t need me for this conversation.”

“I think, for reasons of mutual confidence, it might be better if you stayed,” said Marat. He had an attractive voice, and spoke a precise, formal French. He might have been a railway worker, thought Manners, but he was a well-educated one. “I know we have some problems
between our two organizations, but we only have one enemy. And the fact of these new arrivals from London means that we are getting ready for the invasion at last. Then we can start fighting Germans together, my dear Berger.”

“You haven’t done much about fighting them yet,” Berger said flatly. “And I don’t feel comfortable without someone on watch.”

“That’s already taken care of. My sentry has been watching you since you came down the hill.” He turned and rapped twice on the window. As Manners watched, a young and dark-haired woman in a shapeless gray overcoat slipped into view from the trees, with her hand inside the shoulder bag that hung at her side. Marat went to the door, and spoke to her briefly. She nodded and merged back into the trees.

“I have some information for you,” Marat said, coming back to the table to open the bottle and pour out some drink. “But first, some Calvados, liberated from the supplies the Germans ship back to their fat wives.” He pushed the glasses toward them, ignoring the way Berger’s hands remained firmly clenched by his sides. “They are bringing a second repair train from Bordeaux, but this one will be well guarded. They are also bringing in a special unit, the Brehmer Division, to scour the area for the new nest of terrorists. They have armored cars, their own radio-direction teams, and they work very closely with the Gestapo. So, I drink to your good health and also to your good luck. You’ll need it.” He drained his glass, and grinned at Manners, who found himself rather liking this Marat.

“We know this, because they are bringing the armored cars by train from Metz, where they have been active in the Lorraine, and we see their transport orders,” Marat went on. He sat down again, and pushed out a chair for Manners, ignoring Berger. Manners sat and caught a glimpse of the book Marat had been reading. Michelet’s
History of France
. Manners had never read it.

“Be warned, this Brehmer unit learned its business fighting Russian partisans. They are ruthless and good, and you should be ready to leave
this area within a week, or even less. They will be based at Périgueux, and they have to choose whether to start with you or to tackle Colonel Georges and his Maquis in the forests near Limoges. In your place, I’d head south for Cahors or east to the hills. But don’t stick around for them to catch you. I can give you a couple of days warning of their arrival at Périgueux.”

“So, there are my cards on the table before you. What I need from you is guns for my boys. Guns and grenades and something to use against tanks. Don’t send those British PIATs of yours. They’re useless. We want the American rocket launchers, the bazooka. And Sten guns and Bren guns and ammunition. And those silenced pistols so we can assassinate German sentries and those Gestapo bastards. And we need a drop this week, before this Brehmer Division gets here. I have two drop zones for you to approve, both in the forest of Lanmary north of Périgueux.”

“Why ask me?” said Manners. “You have already been getting supplies, and you have access to a radio.”

“Yes, the Stationer network.” Marat smiled at Manners’s surprise. “It is a good network, but careless. They have been using the same drop zones too long. That is not a risk I want to take. I need to secure my line of communications, as the generals say.”

“You won’t get bazookas. London wants you alive as guerrillas, hitting and running, keeping the Germans on the move and off balance. They won’t give you weapons that fool you into thinking you can stand and fight. Not against tanks.”

“With bazookas we can ambush tanks as they pass though the narrow streets of our towns and villages,” Marat bridled.

“You can do that with Molotov cocktails. Have you ever seen a bazooka fire? It shoots out a great tail of flame and smoke. Every German in sight opens up. Bazooka men don’t last long. They can’t even kill tanks with a frontal shot, the armor is too thick. They can immobilize them by knocking out a wheel or a track, or penetrate the engine
compartment at the rear. That’s if they are lucky. You can do better with a Molotov. But my advice is when you see a tank, hide your guns and run. Believe me, I’ve fought German tanks. I had artillery and fighter bombers and antitank guns and our own tanks to fight with, and they could still beat us. With just guns and grenades and bazookas, you’ll just end up dead.”

Marat nodded coolly. “Well, at least you aren’t making promises you can’t keep. But you will get us the guns and ammunition?”

“I cannot guarantee anything,” said Manners. “I send requests to London, not orders.”

“A request will do. One more thing. I need as much abrasive paste as you can deliver, the stuff we can put on wheel bearings that makes them seize up and lock solid. It’s a lot less dangerous than explosives and more effective in the long run. Tell London that the real weakness of the Boches is that they need low flatcars to move their tanks. The usual flatcars are too high for the tanks to pass through our tunnels. If we can sabotage the low flatcars—and there aren’t many of them—then not a single German tank will get through France by train.”

“What do you want the guns for?” Berger interjected. “You say your Colonel Georges has six hundred men up in the Limousin, and he hasn’t done much with them so far.”

“To assassinate your precious de Gaulle, of course. To kill priests and capitalists.” Marat laughed, showing bad teeth. “That’s what you think, no? Preparing for the great day when the Red Army marches in to liberate the groaning French proletariat. You are a fool, Berger, dreaming up your own nightmares and then choosing to live in them. Even if I wanted to turn my guns on to Frenchmen, how many of my boys do you think would be prepared to follow me? It’s hard enough to get them to kill Milice.”

“I thought the party prided itself on iron discipline.” Berger mocked.

“Maybe in Russia, where the workers already run the state. Maybe in Germany, because even if they are Communists they are still Germans.
But this is France, Berger. Iron discipline is not in our nature. Steely courage sometimes, yes. Muddling through usually, yes. But discipline? You ought to attend a few of our party meetings, then you’ll see how little discipline we’ve got. You Gaullists probably do better. But my boys will be there when the invasion comes, if they have anything to fight with.”

“Thanks for the information. I’ll forward your request to London, and if they say yes I’ll come and approve your drop zones,” said Manners. He liked this man.

“Will you come and help my people with the training or should we request extra?”

“Training is what we are here to do. But London will decide. My time is getting very stretched, but there’s also an American with us.” Manners suddenly saw the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Marat’s men needed training, and it would be a good idea to keep McPhee and François apart for a time.

“An American? My boys will like that.”

“Wait till you see him. He insists on wearing his American uniform and he looks like a Red Indian. It’s a strange haircut they wear.”

“Even better—an American Red.” Marat laughed. “Perhaps you’ll join me in a final drink to the revolution? Or if that offends you, let’s just drink to victory.”

“We have a long ride ahead of us,” said Berger. “But thanks.” He turned to go.

“Wait,” said Marat, and turned to rap on the window again. “If Mercedes doesn’t get my signal, you’ll be shot as you leave.”

“Mercedes?” said Berger levelly, waiting by the door. “One of your Spaniards?”

“The revolution knows no frontiers, my friend.”

“That’s one of the things I don’t like about Hitler. He knows no frontiers either,” Berger retorted, and walked out of the door without looking back as Manners shook Marat’s hand.

“The Dunlop tire factory at Montluçon,” said Marat, keeping hold of his hand. “Your RAF bombers got it last September. I hear it will be in production again next month. One kilo of plastique in the right place and we can knock it out again before it starts. Will you help?”

“Montluçon—that’s some distance.”

“I can get you anywhere by rail. We have ways, hiding places.”

“How do we stay in touch?”

“Through Berger. Otherwise, he’ll never trust you again. But if you must arrange something fast, go to the Café de la Place in Périgueux, just behind the cathedral. You saw Mercedes, standing guard outside? She’s the waitress. Good luck, Englishman—and here.” Marat handed him the book he had been reading. “I know about secret work. One part acute terror, nine parts total boredom. You might enjoy a good book.”

The acute terror came quickly, when the demolition of the points at the shunting station of St-Felix went badly wrong. Young Oudinot, on his first mission, lit the fuse at the wrong place; the charge blew up in his face and took his head with it and the Milice post opened up with a machine gun. Two more men went down. Manners took a bullet through the heel of his boot as he came out from cover to help little Christophe get away from the killing ground of the railway lines, and then used his only handkerchief to make a tourniquet above the lad’s shattered elbow. There was no sole left on his boot but he felt no pain as he bundled Christophe over the cinders and then through the brambles and onto the hill above the village. His own charges went off, giving some cover as the Milice carried on firing bursts so long that they must be close to melting the barrel. They had cut the phone lines before moving in to place the charges, but the Germans would have a patrol here before dawn, and the rendezvous point was on the other side of the village. He had to get across, with Christophe.

He was limping now, his foot a mass of pain and Christophe an almost dead weight, as he ducked into the shelter of the churchyard and nerved himself to cross the main street. It was dark and silent, the locals knowing too well not to stir with all the firing, but he felt a thousand pairs of eyes watching him, and imagined Milice gun barrels trained on the pavement. This would never do. He slung Christophe’s good arm around his shoulder, and they hopped and tripped across, and up the side street by the shuttered bakery, and down to the stretch of waste ground near the old garage.