Down the Rabbit Hole- Into France Page 3

  A few doors along the street, she saw the soldiers stop outside a house. Within seconds, more had joined them. They battered down the door, and after a short period of yelling and some scuffling, they dragged a young man in his 20s out by his hair. His name was Maurice Gagnon, and he was screaming in pain, and in terror. The front of his trousers had become a darker shade of their original colour.

  “Please, please, I didn’t do anything,” he was crying.

  His cries fell on deaf ears, and he was dragged from the house and thrown on to his knees into the middle of the street. Capt. Wegner arrived on the scene and walked straight over to Maurice. In a final act of hope, he clasped his hands together and begged Wegner for his life.

  “I beg you,” would be his final words.

  Wegner pulled out his pistol, aimed it at Maurice’s face and fired. Droplets of blood shot in every direction, and the life of Maurice Gagnon came to an abrupt, bloody and undignified end.

  Bridgette, who had witnessed this terrible murder, felt her knees tremble. She held her hands up to her mouth and let out an involuntary muffled shriek.

  As if in slow motion, Bridgette watched Maurice’s body fall down onto the street. His still warm blood was gushing from the bullet hole, and it was slowly soaked up by the fresh snow.

  Wegner, still looking at Maurice without a shred of emotion on his face - or in his heart - holstered his pistol. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a drop of blood which had spattered on to his face. His job was done, and he turned around and left the body to be disposed of.

  Bridgette backed away from the window, still in shock. Danielle came rushing in and asked her mother what had happened.

  “They’re searching the entire town. Every door. They’re pulling people out into the street,” explained her mother.

  Danielle went over to the fireplace. She retrieved the poker and opened the secret latch.

  MacArthur and Hiroa were looking up at her from the dark cellar, the whites of their eyes being the only part of them that was remotely visible.

  “The Gestapo is searching the whole town door-to-door. You must stay down there and remain perfectly silent,” Danielle explained in an almost inaudible voice.

  Both men nodded their understanding, and once again, the secret entrance to the cellar was closed.

  Danielle grabbed some wood and placed it on the fire.

  The inevitable knock on the door came. Outside of the bakery, Cpl. Himmel and Pte. Brahms stood alongside a still irate Captain Wegner.

  “Open up, open this door immediately,” they ordered. Bridgette approached the door and obeyed.

  “Yes, how may I help you gentlemen?” she asked with miraculous composure.

  There was no immediate answer to her question. Himmel and Brahms pushed past Bridgette knocking her sideways and had a quick glance around the bakery before heading into the back room. Wegner followed, as did Bridgette. Every cupboard and door was opened and every shelf was searched. Several pots and containers fell to the floor, a few of them breaking. Danielle and Bridgette joined each other at the counter pretending to ignore the Germans, and they stood side by side kneading dough.

  Wegner started the questions. “Who lives here?”

  “Just the two of us, we are mother and daughter,” replied Bridgette politely.

  Wegner snapped his finger at the two soldiers and ordered them to search the whole building thoroughly. Brahms took the living room. He opened the cabinets, checked under the furniture and looked at the now roaring fireplace. Heavy footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs, and the two men rejoined Wegner. Himmel confirmed that there was nothing to be found in the bedrooms, and Brahms reported that he was satisfied there was nothing of importance in the living room.

  Wegner, with a look of disappointment on his face faced the two ladies. “There has been an escape from the camp nearby. Have any strangers approached you asking for food or anything else?”

  Bridgette told the captain that she had not noticed anyone new or out of the ordinary. Danielle looked at the soldiers properly for the first time since they had arrived, and recognised Himmel. Of course she would recognise him; he was the man who had raped her back at the checkpoint when she had been heading home from the forest. Himmel looked at her and smirked, knowing full well that there was not a damned thing she could do about it.

  Wegner took one more look around the shop. The Gestapo were never 100% satisfied with anyone’s answers or story. His eyes stopped on a chicken pie laying on the counter, and he commented on how good it looked and smelled. Bridgette, knowing what this meant told him that he was free to take the pie to share with his men.

  As they were leaving the bakery, Wegner paused, turned and said one last thing: “The escapees are dangerous, and we will shoot them on sight. Furthermore, if anyone helps them in any way whatsoever, we will shoot them too. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” he asked Bridgette.

  “We will report anything we see, sir,” she replied weakly.

  “Good. Thank you for the pie. Gute Nacht.” With that, he turned and left, followed by Himmel and Brahms. Bridgette and Danielle both exhaled slowly. They had spent the last few minutes using every atom of strength in their bodies to control their fear, and now that the Germans had finally left, they felt tired and weak.

  Chapter Nine

  Special Operations - War Office, London.

  Vera Atkins was walking towards her office, her high heels clattering on the marble floor, when she heard her name called. She turned around, and saw Col. Walker approaching her. She was expecting him.

  “Good morning, Colonel. This way, if you’d be so kind.”

  They both stepped into her office. The door was closed and Atkins sat at her desk. Walker remained standing at attention.

  “Let’s hear it then, Colonel,” Atkins said, electing to omit any small talk from the meeting. Walker proceeded carefully, knowing that Atkins was not going to like what he had to say.

  “Ma’am, several of your operatives have been retrieved and returned for debriefing. Unfortunately, the flight that went out two nights ago has not returned. We can therefore assume that the mission failed.”

  Atkins slapped her desk. “Damn. I needed that one to work. What do we know?” she enquired.

  “Nothing much, I’m afraid, Ma’am. I’m expecting updates within 48 hours. They could still be alive. I’m allowing a certain degree of optimism for now.”

  Atkins was looking down at her desk, obviously deep in thought. “They were supposed to extract a female operative for me. I needed that done then, and I still need it done now, at any cost.”

  “What would you like me to do, Ma’am?” asked Walker.

  “Get in touch with the French Resistance at once, Colonel. Ask them if they know anything, anything at all. If we don’t hear from them within 48 hours, send in a second rescue mission.”

  “Consider it done, Ma’am,” said Walker. He then gave an immaculate salute and left Atkins’ office.

  Chapter Ten

  Allied Hideout, Bordeaux.

  Mitchell and Patterson were making some final adjustments to their gear. Oliver was standing close by, looking at them as if they had been taken over by instantaneous insanity.

  “You want me to do what?” he asked for the second time.

  “We’re going back in,” replied Mitchell calmly, acutely aware that asking Oliver to go back to a place from which he’d recently escaped was asking a lot.

  “I’ve just escaped from that hell-hole, and now you are asking me to go back? I thought you were supposed to be rescuing us!” Oliver protested.

  “We are. But first, we need to go back. Get ready,” ordered Mitchell. Oliver approached the sergeant, and the two men eyeballed each other.

  “Mitchell, I have been living…no, existing in that shit-hole for two years. I have not seen my family for three years. I’m not going back, and to ask me to do so is taking the bloody piss,” Oliver said to Mitchell, who was weari
ng one more stripe than he was.

  Like any good man in command, Mitchell remained calm. “Corporal Oliver, do you want to get out of here? Do you want to make it through this? Yes? Then you need to calm down and help us. I have orders to extract our man out of that camp, and you are going to help us by leading us there.”

  The ensuing standoff lasted for a good minute. The corporal was the first to blink and turned away, muttering obscenities under his breath.

  “Thanks, but no thanks, Mitchell,” he said. “The camp is in that direction, and between here and there, there is a battalion of Krauts, all who have rifles, and all who have twitchy fingers. I’m going this way,” Oliver said pointing in the opposite direction to the camp.

  With that, he looked at the men, turned around and started to walk away.

  “Oliver, you’re making a mistake.” Mitchell’s observation had no effect on Oliver. “Shit Patterson, go and get him,” he ordered.

  Patterson stomped off after Oliver, and a few seconds later, a muffled yelp could be heard.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Forest, Bordeaux.

  Pierre Nadeau was crouching down low in the bushes. A second man, Adrien Fontaine, hiding similarly in another bush just a few metres away was tapping out a message in Morse code. Both men were unaware of each other’s presence.

  Many miles away, Fontaine’s message was being received. The young operator unscrambled the dots and dashes, and wrote out each letter as they were transmitted.

  Yes we are getting them out soon, it read.

  Nadeau adjusted his body slightly to relieve the cramp in his legs, both of which were on the verge of being frozen solid from the snow-covered ground. A small branch snapped, and with the stillness of the night, it sounded like a cannon being fired. Fontaine grabbed his rifle, stood up and pointed his weapon towards Nadeau’s bush.

  “Come out,” Fontaine commanded the still invisible Nadeau.

  Nadeau stepped out of his bush with his hands raised above his head, and stated simply, “POW, Canada.”

  Fontaine, testing Nadeau’s story said, “You’re from Canada, huh? Parlez-vous Français?”

  “Oui. I am from Montreal,” replied Nadeau, his hands still held high.

  “Turn around. I do not know you, and I am going to tie you to a tree until I am happy with your story.”

  Doing as he had been told, Nadeau turned, walked towards the nearest tree, and in a bid to help Fontaine, he held his hands behind his back ready to be tied. Fontaine took a length of rope and started to bind Nadeau’s wrists tightly.

  “Sir,” said Nadeau. “Please tell British intelligence that thirty of us escaped from the POW camp close to here. We need help immediately. We need to get out of this country. Please tell them.”

  Fontaine offered Nadeau an indifferent nod while continuing to secure his wrists, before moving down to his ankles.

  Chapter Twelve

  Special Operations Executive (SOE)

  Offices, London.

  Cpl. Cooper was one among a row of radio operators sitting at a large switchboard. He wrote down the message as it was being received, tore the piece of paper from the pad and rushed out of the office to deliver it. Col. Walker was studying some files on his desk when there was a knock on his door.

  “Come in,” said the Colonel.

  Cooper entered the office, closed the door behind him and approached the officer’s desk. He stood to attention and saluted. “Sir, I have a message from the French Resistance.”

  Two hands met mid-way over the large oak desk, and Cooper handed over the folded note. Assuming that his duty was complete, Cooper once again saluted and turned, ready to return to his position at the switchboard.

  “Wait,” the colonel snapped. “I need you to send a message back.” Walker scribbled down something onto a new piece of paper, and handed it over.

  “See that this is delivered at once. Thank you, Corporal.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  As soon as the door was once again closed, Walker picked up the phone and dialed an internal number. There were no polite greetings. “We need to meet as soon as possible. I have an update for you, Ma’am.”

  Vera Atkins was, as usual, behind her desk when Col. Walker entered without knocking. He deemed the contents of the note to be more important than etiquette. He thanked Atkins for agreeing to see him on such short notice, and she gesticulated for him to sit down. Walker slid the folded note over to Atkins and told her, “We’ve received confirmation from the French

  Resistance that the rescue plane which you sent in was in fact shot down close to the village of Bordeaux. At least 5 SAS commandos have been confirmed killed so far.”

  Atkins started the questions with, “So, the Resistance didn’t receive any of the supplies?”

  “No, Ma’am,” replied Walker, confirming her fears. “But, Ma’am, there’s more. The local

  Gestapo is less than happy about the POW breakout that took place, and they are raiding and searching every property, both commercial and private in Bordeaux. Your man is still inside the camp, but we can’t get anywhere close to it. The escapees are being hunted down like dogs by the Germans as we speak.”

  Atkins looked grim. “I see. Send a message. Tell the Resistance to help any escapees in any way they can, and that unfortunately, we cannot continue to do any further supply drops in that area at this present time. Those men are on their own for now. Walker, thoughtfully tidying his moustache nodded his agreement.

  Atkins started considering her options. “Can we send in another group of commandos, Colonel?”

  “I don’t think so, Ma’am. It would be a suicide mission now, what with the Gestapo crawling all over the place. Plus, we don’t yet know for sure if the Germans have captured all of Turnball’s men. I am inclined to suggest that we wait for a better window of opportunity, Ma’am.”

  “Agreed,” Atkins said decisively. “Organise the air drops that we can do for the Resistance, and inform me if you hear from any of Turnball’s men. Thank you, Colonel. Dismissed.”

  “Understood. Good day, Ma’am.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Forest, Bordeaux.

  Fontaine wrote down the incoming message on a scrap of paper. It wasn’t good news. “Shit.”

  Nadeau, still tied to the tree asked what shit had meant, exactly, while suspecting it wasn’t good news.

  Having packed up his radio, Fontaine went to the back of Nadeau and finally untied him. “It means, I hope you like long fucking walks. Let’s go.”

  With Nadeau’s hands and legs now free, both men set off through the ankle-deep snow, neither needing to tell the other that they would have to be as alert as anyone could be due to the Germans’ determination to catch every last one of the escapees.

  In another part of the forest, Mitchell was keeping his eyes peeled for any unwanted visitors, while Patterson was keeping watch over Oliver, now sitting on a log with his hands bound behind his back. Mitchell tapped Patterson on the shoulder and told him to take a break and to keep a lookout. Oliver looked at Mitchell, his eyes filled with hatred and loathing.

  “I escaped a Nazi POW camp, and now I’m under virtual arrest by my own side. I can’t wait to see the reaction of people back at home when I tell them that!” Oliver said with bitterness that was almost dripping from his tongue.

  “You put yourself in this mess, Corporal,” Mitchell replied, knowing he was right.

  Oliver spoke again, objecting: “Getting captured, imprisoned in a POW camp and tortured is one thing. It’s part of the job. I managed to escape from that hell. Going back voluntarily for more of the same is not part of the job.”

  Mitchell knew that if he was to turn Oliver’s attitude around, he would need to give him more information. “Listen, Oliver, I’ll level with you. Inside that camp is a VIP. We have received orders to pull him out. I am not exactly enthusiastic about walking into a German POW camp myself, I can tell you. Shit, I don’t even know if he’s still
there. And, if he is still there, I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. But, orders are orders, and we will make an extraction attempt.”

  Mitchell’s honesty paid off, and Oliver came down from his high horse. “What’s his name?” he asked.

  “Jim Garner,” said Mitchell.

  Oliver looked thoughtful. He leaned back, took a deep breath and told Mitchell that he knew him.

  “He’s the one who put the escape plan together. He stayed behind so maybe he’s still there. What’s the urgency to get him out, is he British Intelligence or something? He did seem like the type, thinking about it. He was always planning something, coming up with new ideas for this and that.”

  “I wasn’t told why they want him,” said Mitchell truthfully. “Mere Sergeants like myself aren’t usually privy to such information. They don’t tell us how to do it or why we need to do it, they just tell us to get on with it, and I find that it makes for a much more peaceful life if I follow my orders.”

  Deep in thought, both men fell silent.

  Mitchell changed his tone. Instead of speaking sergeant to corporal, he now spoke as if he were talking to a friend; a friend who he cared about. “Listen mate, if you go out there alone, not only will you be caught and dead in no time, you will also jeapordise the safety of our group.”

  Oliver caved in, but he had a stipulation, probably to save face. “Alright, listen. If you guarantee that I get a ticket home so that I can visit my family, I’ll go in with you. And, will you please untie my bloody hands?”

  Mitchell obliged Oliver’s first request, and gave him his word that he would honour and deal with the second one personally. They had a deal, and shook hands as men do.”