We Fought for Ardnish Read online

  ‘Now, Charles, what happened?’ asked Claude, turning to his friend. ‘Take your time but try not to miss anything out.’

  ‘We met Marc before dawn and went to his house. Marc told us that Cynthia, the madam, was hated in the village – a possible collaborator. We explained that actually she was one of us, a plant, and London had confirmed it. We had no choice but to pray we were right.

  ‘We decided that I would hide down by the river, and when Kaufmann’s entourage arrived I would creep up to the big gates at the Parc Thermes where I’d be close to the building. When there was an explosion from Françoise’s room and the Germans started leaving, Colette and Marie-Thérèse would use their grenades. And Jean-Philippe would rush from behind the building firing his Sten gun. We didn’t know what would happen, we needed to be ready for anything.

  ‘Marc and I went for a walk around the town mid-morning to check exactly where everyone would be positioned. We had heard that Kaufmann would arrive well after darkness fell, maybe around nine.

  ‘Françoise had her own rendezvous planned with the madam. Marc warned her to be cautious, that it might be a trap, but she said she trusted HQ’s information.’

  This sounded typical of her, I thought, confident and trusting of her people. I handed round the coffee. ‘This will warm you.’

  ‘Françoise briefed us on all possible outcomes. The first and best would obviously be if we got a clear shot of him as he arrived. Failing this, Kaufmann would enter the brothel, she would pour him champagne and flirt, he would relax and then she would shoot him and escape. If his men discovered that she was armed she would be arrested on the spot. And the final outcome . . .’ Charles gazed into the fire.

  ‘Go on,’ Claude insisted, though we all knew.

  ‘As she put it, il me baise. She would then shoot herself and we would kill him as he left the building.’

  The mood in Claude’s sitting room was grim. I was severely shaken by what I was hearing. Colette, gripping the blanket draped around her, was slumped on the floor, still being comforted by Marie. Charles said nothing.

  ‘So we were ready. Despite Françoise’s protestations, Colette went with her through the town in the afternoon, right to the door of the madam’s apartment. Françoise then sent her away. She was determined to go in alone; she saw it as her risk and hers alone.

  ‘We last saw her early evening, walking briskly up Avenue de Genève towards the baths. Her hair was pinned up and she was wearing a brown dress, nylons and high-heeled shoes . . . Do you have cognac, Claude? I think I need a drink.’

  ‘Of course.’ Claude passed round glasses and the bottle. The room was thick with cigarette smoke. I was trying to envisage Françoise in a dress. She must have had it in her bag all along, knowing from the outset what she’d have to do in it.

  Charles downed his cognac in one gulp. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘I was down by the river with Marc, Françoise was in the brothel, and the others were in Marc’s house down the street.’

  ‘Were there many people around?’ Claude asked, refilling his glass.

  Charles shook his head. ‘The town was very quiet, presumably due to the downpour. Some Italian soldiers had gone into the brothel already,’ he said in disgust, ‘and were with those treacherous whores. We could hear music and laughter coming from there. There were two Alpini outside, smoking.

  ‘Eventually we heard vehicles coming up the road. Marc raced off to tell the others as they came into the village. Two motorcycles at the front, maybe five hundred yards ahead. Then another two, then two cars. They stopped outside the building. The two men smoking outside had disappeared. A group of officers got out and went into the building, but it was too dark to see who was who. The motorcyclists stayed outside. They were armed. It did not look good.’

  He paused for what seemed an age, then took a gulp of his drink.

  I couldn’t bear the suspense.

  Charles renewed his story, the words tumbling out now. ‘It was a good hour, maybe more. But then there was an explosion in the baths, and the sound of a breaking window, a grenade going off. I could see that it was on the first floor where the lights were on. There was shouting. The soldiers ran inside, then one reappeared and fired a couple of shots at a shadow. I ran up to the gates, maybe fifty yards away . . .’

  Claude held up his hand. ‘Slowly, my friend, we need to understand what you are saying.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, my mind is racing. I could see Colette and Marie-Thérèse hiding around the corner of the building. Ten more minutes passed. Then I saw the door of the baths opening; the drivers had the engines running. I shot one of them through the car window, dead, I’m sure. Several German soldiers came out carrying someone feet first, covered in blood. We were pretty sure it was Kaufmann. Jean-Philippe came round the corner, all set to open fire, but then he saw Françoise . . . Two men were holding her up. Her right side was covered in blood. Jean-Philippe didn’t want to shoot towards Françoise and . . . I’m afraid that cost him.’

  Charles looked across at Colette, who had composed herself and was listening wide-eyed, face streaked with tears. ‘There was a burst of machine-gunfire and Jean-Philippe was shot in the chest. I fired two shots and saw two soldiers go down. Then I saw Marie-Thérèse and Colette running. They tossed one grenade into the car with the dead driver; the other hit the windowsill and bounced back onto the ground. They both went off, and, luckily, the women were away.’

  ‘And then?’ Claude asked.

  ‘I shot two more Germans, but one of the motorcyclists began spraying bullets in my direction. I ran through the woods towards our rendezvous point.’

  Marie-Thérèse took over the story. ‘We were peering round the corner, quite far off. The officers and Françoise were squeezed into the one car that worked. We knew she was alive because we heard her cry out. She must be badly injured, though. I had to stop Colette from running to her husband as men from the brothel were pouring out onto the street by now. They turned Jean-Philippe over; he was definitely dead. I pulled Colette away and we headed off to meet Charles.’

  Colette had begun trembling uncontrollably. ‘I’ll take her away, to her mother,’ said Marie-Thérèse, ‘and come back later.’

  Everyone embraced and departed, leaving Claude and me.

  ‘What will happen now, do you think?’ I said. ‘Reprisals?’

  Claude nodded. ‘Undoubtedly. They will come and they will kill people in Saint-Gervais-les-Bains.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘And more locals will come to hate the Maquis. But we must not lose sight of the fact that the mission was a success! Oh yes, Kaufmann is dead. Your HQ will be pleased, won’t it? One dead German officer and dozens of innocent people killed. A truly successful mission.’

  Claude’s anger and bitterness were plain to see. He raised his hands as if he were a priest giving a blessing and shrugged expansively. ‘But your Françoise will get a medal when they find out she has been shot.’ He avoided looking at me.

  I took my leave of Claude, climbed up to the attic where the transmitter was hidden, and, with a heavy heart, sent my report to London. ‘We will alert our local people to the agent’s capture’ was their immediate and unreassuring response.

  The sky was brightening outside. I returned downstairs and sat exhausted in the chair; empty glasses and full ashtrays surrounded me. Claude had gone to milk his cows, refusing my offer to help. I suspected he wanted some time to himself; Jean-Philippe had been an old friend. Meanwhile, my mind was on Françoise. She would likely be at the army camp in Sallanches – if she was even still alive. My God, what would she be going through?

  I was desperate to head down to Sallanches right away, but I had a sortie myself. I was going to be operating alone and there was a high risk that I, too, would end up captured or dead. Captured, interrogated, tortured and executed – it’s just how it was.

  Despite all that, I vowed to do whatever I could to track her down, the first chance I got. But how?

  There was a soft tap at the
door, and in came a man I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Hello, Angus,’ he said, reaching for my hand. ‘I’m Marc.’

  Just then, Claude entered the room, clearly recognising the visitor. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘At dawn,’ Marc began, ‘three Gestapo trucks came into the town and went straight to the baths, but all the women had fled. Jean-Philippe is hanging from the church tower. No one will cut him down. They broke into Cynthia’s house and tore it to pieces, but she’s vanished.’

  ‘And reprisals?’ Claude asked.

  ‘None yet, but everyone is terrified. People are leaving as quickly as possible, escaping to their summer grazing, or to family elsewhere. My family has left. May I stay with you? Some people in Saint-Gervais will guess I am involved.’

  ‘Of course, as long as you need.’ Claude turned to me. ‘Have you alerted London?’

  I nodded. ‘They know. We can only pray . . . Meanwhile we have another call tomorrow to get orders for our own operation.’

  That was just what I did; I went to pray. Marie came with me. We walked up the hill to the beautiful Église Notre Dame de la Gorge. The cliffs towered over the building and a massive river full of snowmelt tumbled down beside it; the roar of the water was so loud we could hardly hear each other speak. Although it had felt warm in the spring sunshine, it was bitterly cold here in the shade.

  ‘There is a retired priest here, an old friend of mine,’ Marie said. ‘We can ask if he will pray for her with us.’

  The old man embraced Marie and readily agreed to her request. We sat close together in the comforting surroundings of the church, our eyes closed, listening as his prayer quietly filled our minds.

  Half an hour later, we were back outside, blinking in the light. I somehow felt uplifted, reassured that Françoise may after all survive her ordeal.

  *

  Later, sitting in Claude’s house, my mind wandered homewards and to my training at Lochailort. When I first went there it was very small; everyone felt they were part of an elite bunch. There was no bureaucracy. Lord Lovat, the Stirling brothers and others made up the curriculum as they went along, and joined in. If the students were to do a night-time patrol, falling in bogs, struggling through burns and fighting hordes of midges, then the instructors would be alongside them. MI(R), as it was known, was set up there, with the objectives of assassination, sabotage and subversion. Their agents would neither be acknowledged nor defended by their government. The selected students ranged from a baronet to ex-prisoners. One of the instructors, Johnny Ramensky, had served time for lock-picking and safe-cracking. He used to say, ‘We’ll have a thousand fully trained burglars by the end of the war.’ I trusted the man with my life.

  The innovative weapons training and levels of fitness that were pioneered at the big house were being widely introduced across the army. I reckoned that by now there must be thirty Special Training Schools across Britain using Lochailort-trained instructors.

  Thanks to the influence of Brigadier Gubbins, I could choose to some degree where my postings would be. I opted first to learn about the sticky bomb at the Thatched Barn in Hertfordshire, then travelled from Loch Fyne to Knoydart, teaching what I had learned to the instructors.

  Only a year before, Major Fairbairn had been sent to Canada to Special Training School 103, where Françoise had been trained. Since America entered the war they had opened an equivalent station near Washington, D.C., called Greentop Camp – last I’d heard of Fairbairn, he was off there next to teach his ‘ungentlemanly warfare’.

  I set about writing Françoise a letter, planning to send it to her parents. If she escaped, I was certain that’s where she would eventually surface. I took care with what I wrote, aware that it might fall into the wrong hands.

  Dear Françoise,

  I pray you have reached home and are safely reunited with your parents. God, please may this be the case. I think of you constantly, as do Claude and Marie. It is a week since your job – can there have been any more awful? I confess to being furious with London. Everyone is desperately trying to find out where you are. If you are reading this, then you are alive. Thank you, God . . .

  I sat back, sighed, and decided to be completely honest.

  After breakfast on our last day I felt so close to you as we talked about our lives. Then you departed without a goodbye or backward glance. I realise that you must have been frantic with worry and preoccupied with what you knew lay ahead.

  I cannot bear to think of you being in pain. So, fuelled with some of my host’s brandy, I thought I would try to describe my real feelings.

  From the moment that we met two weeks ago you have intrigued, challenged and amused me. You made me smile and laugh, and my heart skipped a beat when you glanced my way, or simply walked into the room. With my eyes shut I can picture your face precisely in my mind – your dark hair, the curve of your lips, always so close to a smile, your pale skin.

  We barely touched, but in my imagination I hold your face and look deep into your eyes, that captivating mix of grey and green.

  Of course I am uncertain whether you think of me as I do you. I can only wonder.

  I will write again when I can.

  May God bless you and protect you.

  My fondest regards,

  Angus

  Chapter 6

  It was midnight. I stood and faced Claude, who had summoned eight Maquis.

  ‘My friends,’ I began, ‘our task is to close the route from Sallanches through to the Chamonix valley. The Germans plan to use the route through Vallorcine to Martigny in the event of an invasion of Switzerland, and this is increasingly likely, possibly this summer. Germany needs gold to fund its war efforts, and invading neutral Switzerland will at present be relatively easy for them. We must blow the cliffs just above Chedde; this should block the road for months. It will trap the Italian vehicles up in Chamonix, but, more importantly, prevent tanks and other military vehicles coming up the valley and through the pass into Switzerland. Blocking the River Arve and creating a dam would make it nearly impossible for it to be cleared. So, we’ll head at first light over the mountain to Vaudagne.’

  The Maquis were a motley crew, probably all STO objectors escaping the forced labour being sent to Germany by the Vichy Government. As was becoming their tradition, they all wore berets. Weapons were handed out.

  ‘You will all stay here tonight,’ ordered Claude. ‘My wife will go down in the Peugeot at four o’clock to check the route is clear. Then Jean and I will go in the truck with the explosives. I’ll drive. Let’s hope the road is clear of snow up to Vaudagne. Obviously we can’t drive through the villages down in the valley with ten men. They know me and the truck, so I should be all right, but, Charles, you will lead the rest on foot over the mountain. Take Angus with you. How long do you think it will take? Six hours, yes? We’ll rendezvous at Jean-Luc’s barn, you know the one.’

  Charles nodded. ‘Understood.’

  Our team proved typical of the Resistance in that a four-thousand-foot climb, carrying a pack and rifle, and a departure before dawn were not reasons to hold back on a late night with plentiful wine. Soon the room was engulfed in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, and a heated card game threatened to escalate into violence at any moment. I slumped in a corner, trying to doze. But I was too worried about Françoise. It had been days since her capture. I knew Claude had people in Sallanches trying to find out what had happened to her, but so far there had been no news.

  I must have dropped off through sheer emotional exhaustion because I woke, stiff and sore, to the sound of the men busying dressing themselves in preparation. We stuffed hunks of bread and cheese into our pockets; it would be nightfall before we ate.

  We kitted up, packed our snowshoes, and set off. For the first hour we were on a forest track so we did not need our snowshoes until we were clear of the trees and approaching the snowfields above. It was icy underfoot, though ; it wouldn’t be until the sun was up properly that
the snow would soften.

  Charles and I talked. ‘Have you heard of Jean Moulin?’ he asked.

  ‘I know the name,’ I replied.

  ‘He works directly for de Gaulle in London. Claude and I met him in Annecy last week. He wants to pull together all the Resistance forces into a single group. We are not keen.

  ‘You see, many are Communist: the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, the FTP. But we are not and never will be. We are l’Armée Secrète, the AS. If we were not fighting the Nazis, we would be fighting the Communists, you see? There was even a checkpoint between Les Contamines and Saint-Gervais before the war; you had to show an identity card to get through. The Saint-Gervais mayor is a hardline Communist who used to work in the factory in Chedde.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ I urged.

  ‘We all have the same aim of blowing up railways and bridges to stop the Germans supplying their troops, but the Maquis are run by headstrong people who all want to be the boss. They want to go it alone, not be part of a co-ordinated group. Whereas for us – the AS here in this valley – we are a tight group of friends who have known each other all their lives. Far less risk of infiltration. The other Resistance groups are much larger, with many incomers, so they are more vulnerable to informers.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. And what of the relève?’

  ‘Well, it’s the STO now, the Service du Travail Obligatoire, and was signed up to by the Vichy regime,’ he said bitterly. ‘For every Frenchman released from a prisoner of war camp, France is obliged to provide three workers in Germany. It’s forced labour. The Vichy never send their own people, and if the Germans want more workers they just put a thousand more of us in prison, then let them out again in exchange for three thousand more workers. That is why so many more men are joining the Maquis now.’

  Charles was growing more and more animated and angry. He was almost shouting now, and I urged him to keep his voice down. All my training had been focused on being covert to avoid ambush. In the army, scouts would be sent ahead to alert the group of danger. The rest of the soldiers would be spread out, scanning the area, guns in hand. But here it was not so. The men trudged along in their snowshoes, talking, laughing and smoking, rifles hanging loosely over their shoulders.