Chapter 14
Chapter 14
The wood crackled and smoke billowed. The heat was already intense and Fitz backed further into the rear of the shed. The dog followed her, whining and offering the occasional bark. The animal sounded desperate, just like Fitz felt. The smoke was beginning to fill the back of the shed and the roof at the front was now on fire. The timber cracked and the flames angrily spat splinters of wood about.
The dog approached Fitz, whining and pulling on the rope. She could feel the animal at her legs and if there had been anywhere to escape to, Fitz would have but she realised the dog was shaking. She reached a hand down, touching the matted fur. She felt the rope around its neck. If she couldn’t save herself, she might at least be able to save the dog.
‘Come here, boy,’ said Fitz. She pulled at the knot but it was too tightly fastened. ‘Hold still.’ After some tugging and wiggling, Fitz managed to pull the loop over the dog’s head. ‘There you go, boy. Go on, then,’ said Fitz as tears began to fall down her face.
The initial burst of fire had died down a little and now all the petrol had been burnt, the flames had only the wood to feed their hunger.
It might just give the dog enough time to escape. But the animal didn’t move towards the door, instead it went over to the far corner and began scratching at the wooden panel.
Fitz could hear the voices of the Germans outside and wondered if they were waiting to see if she made a bolt for it. The thought was tempting but she wasn’t quite done yet.
The dog was still scratching and whining. Fitz scurried over to it.
To her surprise there was a latch. The shed had a rear door. Just a small one. Big enough for the dog. She managed to free the latch and lift it. The door opened inwards.
Immediately, the dog was out. Fitz knew she had only seconds before the Germans spotted the dog and guessed there was another exit. They would be after her in no time.
Without thinking, she scrambled on her hands and knees through the doorway. The fresh air took her breath away for a moment and she gratefully breathed in a lungful of it.
She took a furtive look around. She remembered coming into the farmyard from the left, where the forest was. Her skills of flying planes without radar, relying on landmarks and a good sense of direction, had never been more important than now. They could cost or save her life.
She looked up at the moon to confirm her bearings and with one last look around, she bolted from the cover of the bushes behind the shed towards the trees that bordered the property.
She didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back. She just ran. She half expected someone to shout at her to stop. Or there to simply be the firing of a rifle. Or maybe she wouldn’t even know she had been shot at. Maybe the bullet would kill her instantly.
As she stumbled across the muddy ground, she wondered if this was the last second she’d ever know on this earth.
She reached the wire fencing and scrambled under it.
Still no one shouted. No shots. No pain of a bullet. She could see the dark tree line ahead of her. It was less than fifty yards away. The branches swayed in the night breeze, cheering her on, waving for her to come to them.
And then she was there, running through the trees. Her breathing coming hard and fast. She had to sit down for a minute and slumped behind the trunk of a large Douglas fir.
She looked back around the tree. The whole farm was ablaze. Orange and black shadows danced in the moonlight.
The sound of leaves rustling behind her, made Fitz startle. She spun around expecting to see a German soldier pointing his rifle at her.
Her heart missed a beat with relief. She found herself laughing. It was the bloody dog. He sat down a few feet away from her. All the earlier aggression born out of fear had disappeared.
‘Oh, come here, you silly thing,’ said Fitz, holding her hand out towards the dog. ‘Come on, boy.’
The dog rose and padded over towards her, but remained out of reach.
Fitz looked back at the farm, which was well and truly ablaze now. She really should put as much distance as possible between the place and herself. It might be the Germans came looking for her.
She got to her feet and the dog followed suit. ‘Gosh, I suppose you’re coming with me, then,’ she said. ‘You really should have a name. I think I’ll call you Scout.’ He reminded Fitz of an old, tatty teddy bear she had at home. One of the few remnants she had from when her mother was alive. It had been a Christmas present from her parents. And in the days and weeks following her mother’s death, Scout had brought Fitz much comfort. The only other person in Fitz’s entire life who had been able to engender that kind of reassurance was Sam. A wave of longing for human comfort washed over her and Fitz closed her eyes, and shook her head, to rid herself of the emotion. ‘What on earth is wrong with me, I’m getting awfully sentimental?’ she said to the dog as they began to pick their way through the forest.
Fitz knew that Josselin was thirty kilometres south-west from their landing strip. That much she had been told at her briefing before they left. The original plan was to spend the rest of the night in a safe house and then travel by truck to a small village on the outskirts of Josselin the following day, where they would then walk into the town for their rendezvous with the local resistance.
Fitz hadn’t been told the details of where they were to meet the truck, and she couldn’t risk wandering around aimlessly in the hope of bumping into someone from the resistance. For all she knew, the Frenchman who’d taken them to the farmhouse, and who was now in the hands of the Germans, may have been the one to drive them to Josselin. Fitz had no choice but to make her own way to the town on foot. She had to make one of the rendezvous, otherwise she’d be stuck in France with no contacts and no means of communication. She wouldn’t be able to hide among French people for very long without being arrested.
With a renewed sense of hope and purpose, not to mention urgency, Fitz made her way through the woods for another hour, ensuring she didn’t stray too near to the road. She needed to keep her ears open for the sound of any German patrol. She didn’t know if they were looking for her, or if they really believed she existed. She probably had two days at the most before either André or the Frenchman cracked under interrogation. It wasn’t a case of if someone cracked, it was simply when.
Before any of that, though, Fitz needed some sleep before it got light again. Confident she was deep enough in the trees, she nestled down against a large fir tree, and patted the ground beside her. ‘Scout, come here. There’s a good boy,’ she said softly. The dog came close, but not within touching distance and lay down. ‘I guess that’s an improvement,’ said Fitz, resting her head back against the bark of the tree. She closed her eyes and allowed herself the indulgence of sleep.
It was the cold and damp that woke her. The morning light was poking its way through the forest canopy.
At some point in the past few hours, the dog had shuffled a little closer to Fitz but hadn’t quite been able to touch her.
She shivered. The damp ground had seeped into her bones. She got to her feet, checking around to make sure there was no one about.
Confident that she hadn’t been discovered and no one was lying in wait for her, she set off in the general direction of the town of Josselin.
She estimated it would take her three hours to get there. She didn’t want to arrive too early. The rendezvous wasn’t scheduled until midday and hanging around at the well for too long would only attract the wrong kind of attention.
Her stomach rumbled and she wished she’d been able to bring something to eat with her, but if she’d been caught it would have been harder to explain why she had food provisions. Not having André with her also meant her cover wasn’t as good as it otherwise would have been. She had to just hope she didn’t run into any German patrols or was stopped and questioned at any point between now and reaching Josselin.
The dog was following her, which, although she was comforted by, it also meant it could put her in more danger. How was she going to explain a semi-wild dog as her travelling companion? If any of the Germans from last night stopped her, they were bound to realise the dog was from the farm. She didn’t want to have to leave the poor animal tied up again somewhere.
While she mused what she was going to do about Scout, Fitz carried on through the forest. The trees were beginning to thin out now and she assumed she was coming to the edge of the woodland.
Within a few minutes she was on a dirt track, similar to the one they had used to get to the farm last night. Keeping to the edge so that she could dive for cover if needed, Fitz made her way along the track. These were like the English public footpaths and generally connected villages and communes together. Sooner or later, she’d come to a village or a farm and maybe she’d be able to get some food there. She had been issued with a ration book, a forgery, of course, but good enough not to raise suspicion and it would allow her to at least eat without having to use someone else’s rations.
Fitz carried on along the track until it came to an end at a road. There was the distinct smell of smoke in the air, and having stepped out onto the road she could see a small stone house a little further along. At first she assumed the smoke must be coming from its chimney but as she cautiously approached the building, she could see it was seeping out from the doorway and windows. All the glass had broken. The whole cottage was burnt out.
Fitz carried on walking, aware of the eerie silence around her. There weren’t any birds singing and, indeed, none flying in the sky. She looked back at the dog who was still following on behind her. Its ears were flat against his head, and he was stooping as he walked. He had clearly picked up on the odd atmosphere.
As Fitz rounded the corner, she stopped in her tracks. The village was ahead of her, and she could see smoke curling its way up into the sky from several of the buildings.
And there was another smell filling the air. An obnoxious, putrid smell that she couldn’t quite recognise. The village looked deserted and as she passed house after house, each was burnt out, some more so than others.
Where on earth was everyone? She headed towards the centre of the village where the church was situated in the square.
There were several shops in the centre, but they too had been burnt – one or two were still on fire. Whatever had happened here, had happened recently.
Fitz reached the entrance to the church and tried the iron ring on the door. It lifted and she pushed open the heavy oak. She was immediately hit by a stench that made her want to gag. She clasped her hand to her mouth and nose.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior of the building, it took her a moment to realise what she was looking at.
Sprawled across the altar and the first few rows of pews were bodies. Men, women, children. None of them moving. Some had their eyes closed, while others stared wide-eyed but seeing nothing. All of them were dead.
Fitz let out a cry and rushed out of the church, gagging so much she thought she was going to be sick but only brought up bile from her empty stomach.
Dear God, what had she just seen? She slumped down against the wall of the church, holding her head in her hands.
The whole village had been massacred. It had to be the work of the Germans. She had heard about such atrocities when she was training with SOE. Being told about them was one thing, but witnessing them first hand was another.
When she was finally able to open her eyes, she saw the dog sitting at the foot of the stone steps, watching her. It gave a little whine before lying down.
Fitz got to her feet and gently closed the door to the church. ‘God have mercy on your souls,’ she said quietly.
Slowly, she made her way down the steps. Her stomach cramped in hunger and she looked over towards the shops. Maybe she’d be able to salvage something to eat from what was left of the bakery, which stood apart from the row of shops and didn’t look so badly fire-damaged.
The glass was blackened by the smoke and as she stepped through the doorway, ash covered the floor. The ceiling had collapsed from the fire but amazingly the rafters remained intact. Fitz wasn’t sure how stable it was but she was desperate for some food. Anything, until she made it to Josselin. She looked back at the dog who was waiting on the path outside. He was probably hungry, too. She wondered when he’d last been fed.
The counter was partially damaged by the fire, charred and burnt at one end, but still more or less intact. She could see a wicker basket that had miraculously escaped being burnt, sitting on the shelf alongside the remains of others.
Luck was on her side. Inside the basket were two loaves of bread. Fitz grabbed them and tore off the end to one of them, hungrily stuffing it in her mouth. It didn’t taste great – faintly of smoke, but she didn’t care. She just needed food.
She searched the rest of the bakery but there was no other food and she wondered if the Germans had taken what supplies there had been before setting the shop alight. When she went through to the rear of the shop, it had been totally burnt out and some of the timber was still smouldering.
Back out on the street, she broke several pieces of bread up for the dog, who gulped them down at lightning speed. She had no idea if bread was good for a dog or not. The next thing she needed was water. She walked around the church and found the village water pump. She could have done with a canister of some description to take some water with her, but again that would have aroused suspicion had she been stopped. Instead, she had to pump the water with one hand and catch as much as she could in her hand where she sloshed it into her mouth. It was a thankless task. What she needed was a cup of some description.
She went back to the bakery and amongst the debris in the shopfront found a metal scoop, used for weighing out flour. This proved a much more efficient method and she was able to satisfy her thirst.
‘Are you going to drink now?’ she asked the dog. She filled the scoop and held it out towards the dog who had steadfastly remained out of touching distance from her the whole time.
Of all the things Fitz thought she might be doing on this mission, looking after a dog hadn’t been one of them. The dog looked warily at Fitz and she felt sure he must be thirsty but she still hadn’t managed to gain its trust yet. Propping the scoop up against the stone base of the pump, Fitz took a few steps away.
The dog eyed her and then hurried over to the water, lapping it up immediately. As Fitz stood there, her gaze drifted back to the church and thoughts of all the innocent dead inside. She realised her body was shaking and she was crying. Big uncontrollable sobs erupted from her throat and she once again sank to the ground. She allowed herself to cry for several minutes, but at the back of her mind she knew she couldn’t stay where she was.
If the Germans came back, she needed to be out of here.
She picked up her bag and taking a minute to get her bearings again, she headed down the road towards the town of Josselin. The dog fell into step alongside her, which was an improvement on it following behind by several feet.
As she went down the street, every single house had been burned. The smell of smoke and ash hung heavily in the air as some of the buildings still smouldered. Again, Fitz noticed the silence. She couldn’t begin to imagine the terror of the villagers as the Germans rounded them up. Had they known they were going to their deaths in the church? Had they sought refuge there, even? Only to be killed, slaughtered by a hail of bullets. At least they hadn’t met their deaths by fire. That would be unimaginable.
Fitz paused at the end of the road to look back at the village. She wanted to remember this. If she ever got the chance to come back to France when the war was over, she’d come here and pay her respects to the villagers.
She thought she could hear the sound of a cat mewing. It was soft and floated through the still air. She looked around trying to pinpoint the direction of the noise. It was coming from the house on her left.
Fitz pushed open the gate and walked up the path to the single-storey stone cottage. She had no idea why she was going to look for a cat, as if she was gathering animals for Noah’s ark, but something was drawing her towards the sound.
This house wasn’t as burnt as some of the others and Fitz pushed open the wooden front door, stepping into a severely smoke-damaged room.
She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight in front of her.
She had been expecting to find a cat, but instead there was a child. A little girl of about eight or nine years old, standing in the middle of the room, looking at Fitz. The child’s face was tear-streaked and dirty, her blonde hair was tied back in two plaits. In one hand she clutched a teddy bear. She stared at Fitz.