Night Soldiers

overcoat worn around his shoulders like a cape.

“Who are you, then?” he asked. It was city French he spoke, each word shaped as though it meant something, not the fast patois of the countryside.

“Lucien.”

“Yes? And who am I?”

“Ulysse.”

“And where do I live?”

“At the Chateau Bretailles, overlooking the river Dordogne.”

“Would that I did,” he sighed. “Papers?”

Eidenbaugh handed them over. Ulysse spent some time thumbing through the pages. “Excellent,” he said. He handed back the papers and called out, “Very well, Albert.”

It was cleverly done. Eidenbaugh never saw “Albert.” There was some motion to one side of him that caused the red haunches to sway on their hooks, then the sound of a shutting door. He assumed there had been a gun aimed at him.

“Suspicion abounds,” Ulysse said lightly. “Forgive the surroundings,” he added, rubbing his hands against the cold, “but it does keep meetings short.”

“Not too short, one hopes,” Eidenbaugh said, nodding toward the area where the gunman had stood. He had never, to his knowledge, had a gun sighted on him, and he was faintly unsettled by it.

Ulysse smiled thinly. “Where better than a boucherie chevaline? One leaves this uncertain life with, at least, one suspicion confirmed.”

Eidenbaugh laughed. Ulysse nodded politely, very nearly a bow, acknowledging appreciation of the jest. “What will it be, then?” he asked.

“The usual. Stens, ammunition-enough for training as well as normal use-plastique, cyclonite, taconite, time pencils. A few hand grenades, perhaps.”

“How many maquis are there?”

“Five. Probably six.”

“Not enough, Lucien. You must recruit.”

“Is that safe?”

“Hardly. But you’ll take losses-everyone does. Say twelve new recruits to start. Ask your people, they’ll know whose heart beats for France. What have they right now? “

“Rabbit guns. An old pistol. A few cans of watered gasoline.”

“Dear, dear, that won’t win the war.”

“No.”

“You shall have it, but wait for your message personnel before you move. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“And the drop zone as agreed?”

“I’ve been there. It looks good to me.”

“There will be a courier for the date. You won’t see him. Anything else?”

“Will I be in radio communication? In the future?”

“In time, Lucien, but not now. The German radio reparage is too good. They have mobile receivers that move about the countryside, and they’ll find you quicker than you think. Besides, once you are in contact with your base, they will want things, all sorts of things-you’ll find yourself counting utility poles day and night. I would suggest that you enjoy your independence while you have it.”

“Very well.”

“I am certain that they are working on the radio problem, and once you have one, it will be something dependable. And safe.”

“I see.”

“By the way, why are you limping? Part of your legend? Or have you injured yourself?”

As far as Eidenbaugh knew, Ulysse had not seen him limp. Most likely he had been watched all the way to the contact. “Broke a toe,” he said, “when I landed.”

“Do you need a doctor?”

“No. It will heal by itself-you can’t splint a toe.”

“Well, a limp is distinctive, so try and stay off it if you can.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Good-bye, then. See you another time.”

They shook hands. At Ulysse’s indication, he used a door that opened onto an alley behind the shop.

On the way back, as he waited with Gilbert on the Belfort station platform, the two Gestapo officers made an arrest. How the fellow had gotten that far Eidenbaugh could only imagine. His clothing was torn, and blackened with railroad soot, his face was drained, white as death, and his eyes were pink from sleepless nights-he was much too obviously a fugitive on the run. They manacled his hands behind his back and he wept silently as they marched him away.

A mad lady on a bicycle! Most certainly English! All in tweeds!

He had gone down the mountain with Gilbert. Found, hidden in an alder grove, the old truck that was sometimes made to work. Then the two of them had sputtered off to Epinal to buy provisions. When they got back to Cambras, the village was buzzing with the unusual visit. Had she been looking for him? Well, no, she hadn’t said that exactly, but she had been in the house of Gilbert and had drunk many cups of tea with the old woman. Tea? There was tea in Cambras? No, the mad lady in tweeds had brought her own tea. In a box made of stiff paper. Really? Might he have a look at it? Alas, no one would expect an Americain to be interested in a miracle that petit. Where had the box got to? In the rubbish heap, perhaps? No such dishonor. Fed to Gilbert’s pigs, along with other delectables stored up in a wooden barrel in the farmyard. Oh Christ. A missed communication-in his trade one of the worst disasters imaginable. That meant an emergency trip to Belfort. He was furious with himself for missing the courier, though Ulysse had told him it would happen while he was away.

When, an hour later, he put on his gloves, he found a slip of paper stuffed down the little finger.

On November 14, a memorable night in the history of the village, the Cambras maquis drove to the drop zone, then carried dry wood on their backs for half a mile after hiding the truck well off the road. They triangulated the field with woodpiles and covered them with canvas tarps when it started to rain, a cold, icy misery that fell straight down in drops heavy as pebbles. They tried sheltering under the trees but this particular mountain meadow was surrounded by deciduous forest so that one was merely splattered by raindrops hitting the bare branches rather than nailed directly atop the head. Eidenbaugh was soaked through in minutes. At 3:30 A.M. sharp they lit off the woodpiles, then stood back with ceremony and watched them blaze and smoke in the rain. But there was no sign of an airplane and by a quarter to four their bonfires were no more than smoldering piles of wet, charred wood. They couldn’t return to Cambras, so they groped their way into the forest in search of dead branches, falling and bruising themselves in the sodden darkness. The wet branches were piled up on what remained of the bonfires and they tried to light them, using up most of their matches and swearing the blackest curses they could summon.

To no avail. At last, La Brebis came to the rescue. Producing an old piece of rubber tubing from a coat pocket, she siphoned off the gas from the truck, using a wine bottle meant for celebration but drained dry as they sought any available warmth on the mountainside. A bottle at a time, they soaked down the woodpiles while La Brebis, who had ingested a certain amount of gasoline in getting the siphon action under way, went off into the woods to be sick. At this point they heard the sound of airplane motors above them in the darkness-coming from the east! The equation for nighttime air supply operations was complex, involving fuel weight, load weight, air speed, distance, weather, hours of darkness, the phase of the moon, evasive flight paths, and fuel allowance for escape tactics in case of pursuit. Thus the bravery of the British pilot, circling above the socked-in meadow, was extraordinary. He must have used his last margin of safety looking for them and, should he encounter Luftwaffe night fighters on the return trip, was well on his way to ditching in the Channel. They never saw the plane, but they could hear the engines quite distinctly-he’d come down low to look for their signal. The gas-soaked wood woofed to