Stranger at the Gates (36 page)

The S.S. guard on the roof watched the van come close and trained the gun on it. Within his view, but hidden from Jean and Camier, a column of children was moving slowly across the field towards the dark lip of the wood at Chemire. It was a brilliant morning; the sun beat down upon the man on the wooden roof, making the metal parts of the gun hot to the touch. His collar was tight and a ring of sweat stained the edge; he ran one finger under it, his right hand crooked round the trigger of the machine gun. The van bumped over the level crossing and then stopped. The old keeper shuffled forward, waving his arm. ‘Go on,' he shouted, ‘You can't stop there—this train is leaving any minute!'

Inside the van Jean whispered to Camier. ‘Get out—he knows you. Open the bonnet and fiddle inside. I'll follow. Don't do anything, just keep your head down.'

‘Ah, good morning,' Serard saluted the Mayor. ‘What's the matter—trouble?'

‘Blasted thing's falling to pieces,' Camier muttered. ‘I'll just have a look …' He threw up the bonnet and dived under it, pretending to grab at engine parts with shaking hands. He heard the van door open and a moment later Jean appeared beside him.

‘I'm going to get the one on the roof,' he whispered. ‘Stay where you are and for Christ's sake don't put your head up when it starts …' Then he was gone. He went to the rear of the van and opened one door. Inside the men huddled against each other stared at him from the dimness. ‘Grenades,' he said softly. Two were passed to him; they went into his jacket pockets. ‘A pistol; I can't hide the sten.' It was handed to him and disappeared under the jacket.

When Jean reappeared he saw the crossing keeper leaning beside Camier, looking at the engine. There was a shout from the train; the Army driver leaned out and yelled at them. ‘Get that moving! Push it!'

Jean looked up at him and shrugged; the S.S. guard behind the machine gun was looking directly down at him. He slipped his hand in his pocket and found the sectioned surface of the grenade. He walked round the front of the engine, which placed him out of sight, and then, crouching, ran round the side of it. He pulled the pin on the first grenade, released the side catch and tossed it towards the cab. At the same moment he straightened and aimed his pistol at the man on the roof. The guard was not looking directly at him, his attention was focused on the van. Jean de Bernard sighted him; not daring to aim for the head in case he missed, he fired at the trunk. The sound of the shot cracked out, and he dropped on one knee. The blast of the grenade knocked him to the ground; there was a short stuttering burst of machine gun fire, the hiss and rattle of metal tearing and spinning lethally through the air. By now the van doors were open and the men inside were spilling out. Dazed, with his ears buzzing, Jean picked himself up. Above him the engine was hidden in smoke and blackened fumes; the cabin was shattered and as he watched, a dismembered arm, still wearing a rag of uniform sleeve, fell out and hit the ground. On the roof of the cattle truck, the S.S. guard lay forward, depressing his machine gun; he moved, and Jean de Bernard shot at him a second and a third time. He fell sideways and tumbled off the roof on the other side. Jean ran back to the van; he called to one of the men standing around it. ‘Climb up and make sure they're finished inside that cab! Albert … Oh God!'

The Mayor of St. Blaize had fallen backwards; the burst of fire from the machine gun had sprayed the area in front of the train as the dying German pressed his trigger, and instinctively Camier had left the shelter of the van and tried to run. He had been cut down by a dozen bullets ripping into his chest. Serard lay riddled on the roadside a few feet away. Jean de Bernard knelt beside Camier. For a moment his eyes opened and he was conscious. Blood frothed in his mouth. ‘Caroline,' he choked, and then his eyes rolled up and he died.

‘There they are! Look, over there!' A hand seized Jean de Bernard by the arm and shook him. He looked, following the man's excited gestures.

Across the fields the dark caterpillar crawled, its pace the stumblings of the youngest who were still too big to carry. The man who had seen them burst into tears. ‘We're in time, in time … Oh my God, my darling, we'll get you!'

Jean de Bernard didn't hesitate. He slapped him across the face.

‘Get into the van!' he ordered. ‘See if it's been damaged—if you can drive it, back it off the line and onto the road. Go on! Now.' He turned to the others. ‘There are our children. Look, they've heard the shooting!' Larger figures could be seen running up and down the lines, and the procession began to hurry, faltering and uneven though it was, they were being made to run towards the woods.

‘We've got to stop them!' There was a shout from the men.

‘Wait,' Jean bellowed at them. ‘Stay where you are, you fools—you can't shoot it out with them while they've got the children! Keep calm!'

There was silence then, except for the spasmodic bursts of steam from the engine. The van suddenly began to rattle as its engine turned and fired. It eased backwards away from the railway line and pulled up on the road.

‘We can follow them,' Jean said. ‘Spread out, and keep low. For God's sake, I know your children are out there, but you've got to keep your heads. If Savage has got through he'll be waiting for them in the woods. If not, then we'll try and pick them off one by one. Separate now and run; we've a hell of a way to go to catch them up!'

Chemire covered an area of about forty acres; as he approached the edge of the wood by the road, Savage slowed down. He spoke to Dumois, who was so excited by the death of the motorcyclist that he couldn't stop talking about it. ‘You know the woods,' Savage said. ‘Where could they bury the children? Looks as thick as hell to me.'

‘On the other side,' Dumois said. ‘There's a track about two hundred yards up, it goes through the middle to a clearing. It's a place for picnickers and courting couples. There's nowhere else which isn't stiff with trees. Poachers hide in there during the season and nobody can flush them out. Turn up here—here's the track.' Savage put the Mercedes into low gear and they began to bump through a rough pathway between the trees.

‘How far?' Savage asked.

‘Another five minutes or so.'

‘We stop here.' He got out, closing the door quietly. The little group surrounded him; even Dumois, who was carrying his sten gun at a rakish angle over one shoulder, was subdued. It was very silent, with the feeling of oppressiveness and menace which is common to all woods whose tenure of the land goes back for centuries. The ground was soft and green with moss; tracks stretched ahead of them, rutting deep into the friable dark earth.

‘They're up ahead of us,' Savage said. ‘There are two sets of tyre marks there; one looks like a small lorry. From now on we don't make a sound. They won't be expecting anyone but they're no fools. They're professionals and if they hear anything, we'll never get within spitting distance of them.' He looked at his watch. ‘It's ten o'clock,' he said. ‘We made it in very good time. The children won't have got here yet. Check your weapons; Dumois, picking off a motorcyclist doesn't make you a crack shot, so don't get over-confident. I'll go in front and you follow in file. Walk carefully, and don't talk.'

‘How do you know the children aren't already dead?' That was a heavy-set man whose name Savage had never learned. He looked tough and morose; his hands were huge and coarse and they gripped the sten gun like hams. Misery made him resentful of the stranger.

‘I don't,' Savage snapped back. ‘And there's only one way to find out. Come on!' He unslung his sten gun and began to walk, treading with catlike care, avoiding the branches which were lying on the path, dry and cracking underfoot. The rest began to follow. The man who had questioned him made the Sign of the Cross and began to mutter. He had three children, two nephews and several cousins among the victims. He hadn't prayed for thirty years.

The S.S. NCO had posted a lookout on the edge of the wood. He saw the train pull up at the crossing, and the children trickle out of the cattle truck. The men aroused themselves and the machine gunner began checking his weapon. The NCO decided he had time for a cigarette before the distant line of figures reached them. He went back into the wood, leaving his men to report on their progress. He ordered the fire under the coffee pot to be put out, and all uniforms to be properly fastened. He went over to inspect the machine gun. The sound of the grenade exploding and the short stutter of gunfire brought him running to the edge of the wood. Below him the train stood still, smoke pouring from the engine cab. He had a pair of field-glasses; seconds later they showed him the van and the men jumping out of it. Two were lying dead, and the machine gun on the roof of the truck leaned forlornly with its nose down.

He swung the glasses to the file of children. They were running, urged on by three guards, one of whom was using his whip. There was a woman with them, stumbling with a child in her arms; when she slipped there was a moment of total confusion. She was struck and kicked to her feet, the child torn out of her arms. For a brief moment the glasses held her and the scene and then swung back to the train's attackers. They had dispersed and were running after the file of children. The NCO shouted orders; his men came running, their weapons ready.

‘They've bombed the train,' he said. There's five of them down there and they're on their way up here. Two of you take positions behind the trees. They won't catch the little bastards up, but as soon as you can get them in range pick them off!' He put the glasses up again; the children were within three hundred and fifty yards by now; he could hear shouts and cries. Some of the burial detail came out of the wood to watch. It was the machine gunner, wiping the barrel with an oily rag, who looked up and saw Dumois moving through the trees.

Savage knew they had failed when he heard the guttural yell. He froze behind a tree. They had crept up without making a sound, inching their way through the trees, guided by the voices. The burial pit gaped only a few yards in front of them, and the machine gunner caressed his gun, wiping the barrel with a rhythmic stroke. Then Dumois moved, shocked into forgetting that by now the trees were thinner and anything slipping between them could be seen.

The burst of fire caught him sideways on; Savage saw him spin completely round, both hands flung upwards, the sten dropping away from him. He gave a fearful scream and fell, blood spurting from terrible arterial wounds.

The S.S. training was superb; within seconds every man in the group had taken cover, the NCO was behind a big beech tree and the machine gunner crouched swinging the muzzle from side to side. Savage picked out a man lying flat on the ground, sheltering behind a trunk of beech with a fissure running down the side of it. He dropped to his knee and took aim.

‘Come out!' It was shouted in French. ‘You haven't a chance, we've got you all covered. Hands up and come out!' He looked over his shoulder and could see three of the men who had come with him, sheltering behind the trees, pointing their sten guns. They looked amateur and clumsy; Dumois was dying noisily only a few yards away from them. Savage slung his sten gun over his shoulder. He made a gesture to the three of them: stay where you are. Don't move. He felt quite cool, the chill of rage settled on him, as it had done when he killed Brühl. He took a grenade from his pocket, pulled the pin out, slipped off his jacket and held it in one hand. He held his sten by its sling in the other. He raised his voice. ‘Kamerade! Don't shoot!'

Then with both hands raised to shoulder level, he stepped out from the shelter of the trees. They saw a big man, blond in the brief sunlight, and as he emerged into the clearing, he threw his sten gun away. The NCO stepped from behind the tree; he held his revolver pointed at Savage. His intention to shoot him was obvious.

‘Don't shoot,' Savage cried out. ‘I surrender!' Under cover of the jacket, his thumb pressed the three-second release catch on the side of the grenade. As the German pulled the trigger, Savage threw it at the machine gun.

The blast tore the gunner to pieces and dropped the NCO who caught it full on. Almost at the same moment, the three Frenchmen ran into the clearing, firing wildly and indiscriminately; the big labourer leaped over Savage's body and the mangled machine gun, he caught two of the S.S. in his fire and dropped them. A third killed him, and was exposed in doing so. The other two of. Savage's men shot him together. Then they flung themselves behind trees, and the first grenade fell in the direction of the remaining S.S. composed of the gravediggers, two of whom had been wounded by cross-fire. Screams followed the explosion; the younger of the two Frenchmen, a chemist's assistant, who had done military service and been wounded in the back and invalided out, yelled to his companion and a barrage of grenades fell into the trees around the area. For three minutes they threw, and the forest was shattered by explosions. Wood splinters and human fragments flew; dust covered the clearing, blotting out vision. Then there was no more sound. The chemist's assistant, who was named Pellissier, and had twin sons, slowly came from behind his tree. There was a groan from the left. He gestured to his companion to follow; moving very carefully he approached the sound. For a moment he disappeared from the other's view behind a clump. There was a short burst of fire and then he stepped out. The two men looked at each other. ‘We got them,' Pellissier said slowly. ‘They're all dead now.'

He dropped his sten, and went to Savage.

The NCO's bullet had caught him in the chest; its impact had thrown him to the ground just before the grenade exploded. The blast had concussed him, blood was staining the front of his shirt.

‘He's dying,' the second man said. ‘If he hadn't got that swine with the machine gun …'