Chapter Thirty-One #2
The Maquisards were restless too, setting off on sorties to observe the enemy and take pot shots at them whenever they could.
By this time, Mathilde was so impatient to see some action that she put her pistol in its holster one morning and tagged along with a few of them when Renard’s back was turned.
They split into pairs to make their way across the countryside towards the nearby villages.
The roads were quiet but the skies were busy with criss-crossing planes and shells falling with a faraway thud and puff of smoke.
Mathilde was running with Thierry along the side of a hedge bordering the road when the crack of machine-gun fire somewhere close by made them both drop to the ground, looking around to see from which direction the shots were coming.
Thierry peered through gaps in the hedge before signalling to Mathilde to join him.
Two German soldiers were crouching behind a car parked on the verge a short distance ahead of them, firing repeated rounds into the upper floor of a large house opposite.
Occasionally a single shot would come in reply.
As they watched, one of the Boche darted across the road, taking up a new position behind an outhouse at the end of the drive.
The Germans were closing in. Thierry showed Mathilde a gap in the hedge where they could wriggle through and, communicating in whispers, they agreed which man each of them would aim for.
Thierry took the man behind the shed, being further away, although Mathilde knew from having observed him at practice that she was the better shot.
She squirmed through the hedge on her stomach, then ran to the shelter of the nearest tree and stepped forward to take aim and shoot.
The soldier fell back and she fired into his body again to make sure, retreating instantly behind the trunk as a bullet whizzed past her ear.
Thierry had missed his target and was standing in the open without any cover, asking to be killed.
‘Get down!’ she shouted, raising her gun once more as the second German came running towards them, spraying an indiscriminate round of bullets.
She felt nothing but an icy calm as she aimed for his chest and squeezed the trigger, and then a surge of relief as she saw him fall and lie still.
Turning to Thierry, she was alarmed to find him clutching his sleeve, blood oozing between his fingers.
‘Got me in the arm,’ he said, a little shamefaced.
‘You were lucky,’ Mathilde told him, tearing open his shirt to inspect the wound. It seemed to be only a graze; Thierry had been lucky indeed.
They waited for a while before cautiously advancing into the house, where they found two Free French soldiers in khaki with Cross of Lorraine insignia on their chests, one a Frenchman and the other Canadian.
They’d been spotted returning home after a reconnaissance sortie, were down to their last round of ammunition and extremely pleased to have been rescued in the nick of time.
There was much back-slapping, a shared bottle of wine and as many cigarettes as they wanted.
Mathilde was congratulated for her aim, Thierry’s arm was bandaged, and then between them all they dragged the two dead Germans out of sight, having stripped them of their boots and weapons.
Mathilde had felt no qualms about shooting the Viper because he was evil and she hated him, but this was a different matter: she had nothing against these young men except their nationality. Kill or be killed; war turned everything into black and white.
The day after that, Yves arrived at the camp.
He came with an American officer and a couple of Resistance fighters to exchange information and brief their Maquis on the action that was about to take place.
Mathilde hung back as he was greeted by Renard, watching from a distance.
Was this always to be the pattern of their meetings?
Snatched moments amid more important business?
She saw him notice her, caught the shock on his face and the grin that followed.
‘Lionne!’ he said, beckoning her forward. ‘I thought you were in the Vercors?’
‘She got out just before the action started,’ Renard said. ‘Good timing, eh?’
Yves looked at him questioningly but he only shrugged and turned away.
‘Is there any news of Sanglier?’ Mathilde asked.
Yves shook his head. ‘He was in the thick of it. They were left high and dry, waiting for reinforcements that never came. But the fight goes on – we’ll avenge their deaths.’
He brought good news too: the Allied troops were advancing more quickly than anticipated and were aiming to liberate both Marseille and Toulon simultaneously.
The Boche were fighting back but they were tired, and no match for the combined strength of the Americans, British and Free French.
Apparently, the remnants of several German units had retreated through the countryside and gathered in Chateau Albertine.
‘Holed up there like rats in a trap,’ Yves said.
He’d been granted enough weaponry to attack the chateau and take it back into French hands.
Vehicles were already moving into position around Les Roches and soldiers were making their way towards the ruined fortress, where they’d camp before the assault.
‘You know there are staff still living in the servants’ block?’ Mathilde said.
‘Of course,’ Yves replied. ‘Everyone will be briefed to make sure they’re safe.’
The ambush was to take place in a couple of days’ time, and he was appealing for as many of the local Maquis to support his men as possible.
They would strike at dawn, driving Jeeps, armed with grenades and machine guns, followed by fighters on foot.
Renard and his men were champing at the bit to join in – they’d have left immediately, if Yves hadn’t told them to wait until the night before to move into position, so as not to arouse suspicion.
‘I know the area well,’ Mathilde said. ‘I could watch the chateau and report back to the fortress, if that would be helpful.’
‘You’re not coming,’ Renard told her. ‘You can stay here and tidy up the camp.’
Yves took him and Mathilde to one side, away from the others. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked.
‘I don’t trust her,’ Renard replied. ‘For one thing, she’s a distraction. The men don’t concentrate when she’s around – she nearly got Chiot killed yesterday.’
Before Yves could speak, another voice chimed in; Thierry himself had joined them. ‘That’s not fair,’ he said. ‘She saved my life, and you know that because I told you so. I forgot my training but she covered me.’
‘Then why did she leave the Vercors just before it was attacked?’ Renard demanded. ‘She must have known what was about to happen. She betrayed them and she’s going to do the same to us – she’ll go straight to the Boche and warn them. Why else would she come here, of all places, and why now?’
Mathilde felt their gaze upon her, but there was nothing she could say. Thierry was the first to speak. ‘Because she has a child living at Chateau Albertine, that’s why, and she heard it had been bombed.’
The silence thickened. ‘Is that true, Lionne?’ Yves asked after a couple of seconds.
Mathilde didn’t reply. ‘You see?’ Renard pounced. ‘Her mind’s not on the job. If she isn’t a traitor, at the very least she has divided loyalties. You can’t let her take part.’
‘That’s not your decision to make,’ Yves told him. He turned back to Mathilde. ‘Thank you for the offer but, given the circumstances, it might be better if you stayed here until tomorrow night and left with the others.’
She nodded and walked away, unable to look him in the eye.
Yves and his comrades left a couple of hours later.
Mathilde hadn’t tried to speak to him privately and he hadn’t sought her out; she had no idea what he was thinking and didn’t much care, because she was too busy worrying about Esmé.
What if some crazy Maquisard didn’t realise the servants’ block was off limits?
Or if the Boche took civilian hostages? Anything could happen in the heat of battle.
Well, she might not be able to get there right away, but at least she could find her daughter at the earliest opportunity and take her to safety.
The next day, the camp was quiet. Nobody wanted to talk; they paced about or cleaned and checked their weapons with nervous determination.
Perhaps they were all thinking about what had happened in the Vercors and realising that maybe some of those who left the camp would not be coming back.
That evening, they ate a final meal of mashed turnip with onions and Renard produced two bottles of wine he’d been saving, enough for a glass each.
They would leave the camp in pairs after a few hours’ sleep and settle themselves in position in the fields around the chateau, ready to join the attack at dawn.
Mathilde tossed and turned that night, unable to find a comfortable position in her shelter, a little way apart from the others.
The fact she’d need all her strength the next day only made it harder to drift off, and every snapping twig or creeping animal startled her awake.
She was dozing lightly when the sound of approaching footsteps made her sit up and reach for the gun beside her.
Before she could grab it, a hand was clamped over her mouth and she was hauled to her feet, a cold knife blade pressed to her throat.
‘If you struggle, I’ll slit your throat,’ whispered a voice in her ear. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, I assure you.’
It was Renard. After gagging her with a filthy rag, he dragged her further into the wood and, when they were a safe distance away, threw her to the ground.
He seized her arms, wrapped them behind her back and tied them at the wrists around the trunk of a sturdy young tree.
After binding her ankles with another length of rope, he looked down at her with grim satisfaction.
‘I still think you’re a traitor,’ he said. ‘For all I know, you’ll run ahead and raise the alarm. But even if you aren’t, I’m not having some hysterical woman searching for her kid and putting us all in danger.’
Mathilde struggled furiously against her shackles but she was caught fast.
Renard laughed. ‘You’d better hope I make it. When it’s all over, maybe I’ll come back to release you or maybe I won’t. We’ll just have to see how I feel.’
And well pleased, he strode away, the sound of his retreating footsteps growing fainter until they faded into silence.