Clash by Night (7 page)

Obviously the very thought was a restorative. The color was back in his cheeks and he had recovered his usual animation.

“What do you mean?” she said. “Of course he’s coming, we’ve known that for a while.”

“No, I mean now. Tomorrow night, late. I just got word to meet him at the old abattoir in the Bois d’or. I’m to go there at midnight and wait until he comes. And you’re going to translate for him. That’s the job Curel mentioned to you.”
 

Laura didn’t answer, her mind on the danger to her young brother-in-law and her unknown countryman. So the American was about to arrive and help them implement their plan.

“What’s the matter?” Alain asked teasingly, seeing her expression. “Worried about me?”

“Of course,” Laura answered smoothly, going to the stove to move the kettle from the hot center to the edge of the iron cover. She was always aware that Alain’s crush on her could escalate into something more serious with little encouragement. She treated personal remarks neutrally, careful to keep him at a distance without actually hurting his feelings.

But tonight Alain was easily distracted, his mind on the imminent arrival of her compatriot. “I don’t see why we have to import this American to do the job,” he said petulantly.

Laura stared at him. “I thought that you were happy he’s coming.”

“I’m happy we’re getting started, but we could handle it ourselves, without him.” He bent his injured arm at the elbow to test the dressing.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura replied, more sharply than she had intended. “He’s being specially trained with explosives, Curel told you that. Where could we find anybody with that expertise? Stop griping about outside interference and be grateful that he’s coming to help us. My country is not at war with Germany. This man is risking his life to join our cause. Remember that.”

Alain examined her set expression for a moment, and then said, “You’ll always be an American, Laura, no matter how long you live here.”

 
This was a statement which required no answer, and Laura gave none. They both looked up as they heard Henri coughing on the second floor and the conversation came to an end.

Laura remained in the kitchen to clean up after Alain had gone to bed. Then she sat again at the table and faced the stack of books to be marked. The summer session was ending that week and final grades had to be computed.

She worked until the early hours of the morning, and finally retired. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that in less than twenty-four hours the man they had awaited would arrive.

* * *

That evening, as the village of Fains-les-Sources slept under its enforced curfew, the plane carrying Dan Harris entered French air space. It was a propeller transport with room for twelve parachutists, but on this night Harris was alone in its cabin, pacing restlessly as the pilot began his descent for the jump. He was as prepared as he possibly could be for the mission, his head crammed full of conversational French and demolitions information, his muscular body in peak physical condition. But still he moved about nervously, listening for the familiar noises of the great machine. Harris was first and foremost a pilot, and when in a plane he liked to be
flying
it. The status of passenger turned him into a back seat driver, and he started as the pilot slid open the connecting panel and said, “France below, sir. Ever been there?”

Harris shook his head. “Not until now.”

“Great place. Beautiful women. Well, you’ll see.”

“I doubt it, lieutenant,” Harris replied dryly. To preserve secrecy on the mission, the pilot had been told the drop coordinates but little else.

“Two minutes, sir,” the lieutenant said.

Harris checked his gear one last time, going through the routine by rote. He tried the handle of the hatch as the pilot called, “One minute, sir.”
 

Harris opened the hatch, and the wind rushed in at him like a cold blast from a locker full of dry ice. Below it was high summer, but at an altitude of 13,000 feet, two-and-a-half miles up, the temperature was frigid. All he could see was blackness. He felt the tightening in his gut and scrotum that always preceded a jump, the adrenaline rush that told him he was about to plunge, like Icarus, through the void of space.

“Good luck, sir,” the pilot called, flashing him the thumbs up sign. “Kiss Danielle Darrieux for me.”
 

 
Harris reciprocated the gesture, poised on the brink. Then he drew back slightly as anti-aircraft fire began, zipping past the plane with the eerie silence of near misses.

“They’ve spotted us, sir,” the pilot informed him calmly.

Damn. They might look for a jumper now, or else dismiss the flight as reconnaissance and forget it. He fervently hoped for the latter. That was all he needed, every Kraut in the Meuse digging for a phony Frenchman. No matter how he tried his accent was still more Chicago than Chartres.

“How much longer?” he asked the pilot.

“Twenty seconds.”

Harris positioned himself again, and stepped through the hatch as the pilot, switching on the jump light, called, “Go.”

The descent was soundless, with no feeling of falling, which always amazed him now matter how often he jumped. Harris wondered if the pilot would get back safely as he counted off the seconds before he pulled the handle to release his chute. The pilot was a friendly kid, from Brooklyn, Flatbush Avenue right near Ebbets Field. He’d promised Harris some Dodgers tickets when he got back. His uncle worked at the team box office.
 

Harris was low enough now to see the shadowy outline of the trees rushing up at him, and he hoped he wouldn’t get caught in one of them. That had happened to him once at Cherry Point, and cutting all the chute lines to get loose had been like disentangling himself from a gigantic spider web. But now he overshot the woods, settling a little to the east in a small clearing.

For several seconds he waited, unmoving, his heart pounding, listening for the rapid approach of booted feet, the guttural shouts that would indicate his discovery. But there was nothing to greet him except the warm air of a late August night and the moonless, starlit sky.

Harris rose to his knees, unstrapping his parachute. Don’t think about the big picture, he instructed himself. One thing at a time. Follow procedure. Methodically he glanced at the sky for his bearings, checked his rations, dug a hole to bury his parachute. He desperately wanted a cigarette but couldn’t take a chance on the light being seen. Squatting on his haunches, he closed his eyes and visualized the map he had memorized. The river was to the west, a mile, maybe a mile and a half (he was still unable to think in terms of kilometers, though he knew he must soon learn to do so.) He had to find it, then follow it south, to a hut once used as a slaughterhouse in the middle of a small copse. It was at a place on the bank where the river turned back sharply toward the sea, and should be easy enough to spot. The contact was waiting there, described as a boy in his late teens with fair hair and a rudimentary knowledge of English.

Harris fished in his backpack for a moment to check his papers. They indicated that he was a manual laborer named Jean Leclerc on his way to Paris to look for work. He couldn’t pretend to any skill he wouldn’t actually have if tested, and couldn’t carry any printed material pertaining to his mission that might be confiscated. His French was now good enough to pass in brief conversation. He hoped. His cover was that of a traveling man partly to account for his, uh, unusual accent. He trusted that wherever he was the natives would believe he was from somewhere else.
 

He sighed deeply and stripped off his jumpsuit, tossing it into the hollow he’d created for his parachute. He changed into the rough peasant clothing he’d brought with him, and then filled in the cavity containing his discarded effects. He broke off some small branches from a nearby bush and dragged them over the earth he had disturbed, finally smoothing the dirt on top and patting it down with his hands. He walked back to the woods and tossed the branches away, returning to cast a parting glance around the clearing. Then, satisfied, he picked up his pack and began to walk.

* * *
 

In the darkness of the Bois d’or, Alain Duclos waited. His orders were to take the American to Pierre Langtot’s barn and hide him there.
 

The rest would come later.
 

Alain shifted his weight, scratched his head, and finally sat on the ground. He had no idea when the Yank would arrive, or if he had even made the jump into France. Many things could have gone wrong. But he would stay until dawn. If the American didn’t show by daylight he wasn’t coming at all.

Alain remained in the same spot for several hours and at length fell asleep. He was totally alone in the isolated spot, chosen for the rendezvous for that very reason, and the fatigue caused by his two jobs (days at the factory, nights with Curel) took its toll. But around four in the morning he started awake, instantly alert.

Footfalls were coming closer. If it were a German patrol, he would have a lot of explaining to do. But it sounded like one person and the Germans always traveled in pairs. His pulses racing, Alain stood, his hand on his new knife.

A figure emerged from the trees: tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a cloth cap, light jacket, loose trousers. Its face was in shadow.

“
Ou est le embranchement aller en Fains
?” it said, in barely accented French. “Can you show me the road to Fains?”

It was the opening sentence of the planned exchange. Alain moved forward carefully, still not convinced.
 

“
Certainement, c’est ma ville
,” he replied. “Certainly, it is my town.”

The visitor faced Alain squarely. He could see a strong jaw, pale eyes flashing in the scant light, and thick dark hair beneath the cap. So this was the American, Alain thought.
Bon Dieu
! Were they all so big? He stood as high as a
bucheron
, a lumberjack.

“Good,” the man said. “I’ve come a long way and I’m tired.” As he completed the sentence in French, the last three words, “
Je suis fatigué
,” sounded heartfelt.
 

Alain could imagine that he was tired. “We’ll go together,” he replied, finishing the ordained greeting, and then added quickly in English, “You have hunger? I brought food.”

The American shook his head. “Brought my own, and took a drink from the river.” He smiled suddenly, and Alain got an inkling of why he’d been chosen for the mission. Confidence radiated from that smile like pure white light from the sun. “Dan Harris, pleased to meet you,” the American added, extending his hand.

Alain shook it, inwardly exulting, and then startled the American by kissing him rapidly on both cheeks. “I am Alain Duclos, and I am having great happiness to see you. The barn where you stay is not far. Please to come with me.”

“You bet.” Harris followed where Alain led, to Langtot’s barn. They made the trip in comfortable silence, each man content with his role in the night’s drama. Langtot was waiting for them with a bottle of wine. Unable to speak English, the old man pumped Harris’ hand, beaming, and offered both travelers a drink. The brief celebration concluded, Langtot conversed quietly with Alain and finally gestured to the loft where Harris was to spend the night. He presented Harris with a blanket, a bottle of water, and a small basket of food. He wrung the younger man’s hand again and said something in French.

Harris looked at Alain and shook his head. Either he was tired, or he wasn’t as fluent as he’d thought.

“He says that it is a brave thing you do to come so far to help us,” Alain explained.

“He’s taking just as big a risk hiding me out,” Harris replied.

When Alain translated this, Langtot shook his head vehemently and said, slowly, so that Harris could understand, “I am an old man, and ready to die. It’s not the same to take such a chance with a young life.” Then, with carefully rehearsed deliberation, he added, “‘Sank you.”

“Y’welcome,” Harris replied, looking away. Their gratitude was so effusive that it made him uncomfortable. He felt he hadn’t done anything yet to deserve it. The act of arriving, by itself, didn’t strike him as particularly praiseworthy. It would be a while before he understood that any step toward liberation, however small and insignificant it might seem, proved to these people that they had not given up and would never do so. But their desperate urgency to do something, anything, to get their country back again communicated itself to him from that first night. It made him all the more determined to make the mission a success.

With a final wave Langtot slipped out the barn door, returning to his house.

“I must go also,” Alain said. “The patrol passes soon. I am coming back next night, yes?”

“Tomorrow night?” Harris asked, glancing around at his new accommodations.

“Yes, tomorrow.
Exactement
. I bring Curel and, to translate, the wife of my brother.
D’accord
?”

“Fine.”

“Langtot returns in the morning. Sleep now.” Alain opened the door and then shrank back as the patrol car passed along the lane running between his house and Langtot’s. The Germans, defeated by their own punctuality, drove on through the night in ignorance.