The Caves of Perigord

the Das Reich. They had Mark IV tanks, self-propelled guns, and half-tracks full of panzergrenadiers in camouflage smocks. They were right behind us, and there’s one roadblock at Noailles that won’t last ten minutes. If you don’t end this meeting now and get dispersed within the next twenty minutes, they’ll round up the lot of you. And that’s the end of the Resistance for this part of France.”

“Come with me,” said Francois, and they went into the monastery where he told the story all over again. By the time he came out and jostled his way through some Spaniards to climb into Marat’s car, they could hear the German artillery. The escaped Russian prisoner of war who had appointed himself Marat’s bodyguard thrust a Schmeisser into Manner’s neck.

“Spokoyno,” Marat growled. The Schmeisser was lowered.

“You want to come to Tulle?” asked Marat, amused. Manners put his hand on the gear lever to stop it moving, and urgently made his case. Tulle might stop the armored column heading its way. There was nothing to slow the one coming through Brive. Except Marat the ruthless and his Spanish haters.

“The English gentleman wants me to hang some German prisoners at the side of the road and slice their balls off for their friends to find them?” said Marat levelly. “It sounds as if you have learned something about war, here in France.”

“I leave the details to you. The only way to slow the Germans now is to get them so furious they start burning and killing here.”

“So in the absence of English guns, we have to slow them with French blood.”

Manners said nothing. He had nothing more to say. He began to climb out of the car and look for Francois. Then he heard a car door slam behind him as Marat emerged, and saw the Communist’s spectacles glint as he walked to the back of the truck where his men sat, armed to the teeth.

“I want some German prisoners and some rope,” he rapped. “And a blunt knife. From now on, we’re fighting this war Spanish style.”

There was a truck parked at la Ferrassie when the fast black Citroen that Francois had commandeered drew to a halt on the road from le Bugue. In the headlamps, it was empty and deserted.

“Ours?” inquired Francois, as Lespinasse cocked his Sten gun. Manners shook his head as he saw “Madrid” scrawled on the tailgate. “Marat’s Spaniards.”

The three of them toiled up the hill to the cave, guided by the sound of work and curses, and found Marat and McPhee standing by the uprooted tree while one man labored to widen the hole and more were at work inside.

“How thoughtful of you to bring an electric torch,” said Marat amiably. “Our hurricane lamp ran out of paraffin.” He raised his voice. “Igor? Gdye ty?”

“Vot ya, tovarishch,” came the reply from the Russian behind them. He must have been watching them from the moment their car drew up and followed them up the hill. Manners recalled the Schmeisser.

A head emerged from behind the uprooted tree. It was Florien, one of the lads who had helped them put the bazookas into the cave. He must have guided Marat here. Manners sighed inwardly at the complications of French politics.

“We have come to take the bazookas to Terrasson,” said Manners. “It’s a joint action of the Armee Secrete and your FTP comrades to try and hold the road to Perigueux. We might as well go together.”

“I regret that my orders do not mention Terrasson,” said Marat. “I am not throwing away my men’s lives on foolish gestures against tanks.”

“And no doubt your orders tell you to keep the bazookas as souvenirs,” mocked Francois. “They’ll come in useful after the war.”

“Hey, calm down,” said McPhee. “We’re taking them to Perigueux, to blast our way into the Gestapo building in the Credit Lyonnais, and some others to hit the Hotel Normandie at Bergerac. It’s my idea, the only artillery we’ve got to take out their HQs. The battle of the Das Reich division is over, you guys. We lost it. They roll on. We stay, and take out the garrisons they leave behind.”

“That is not what the joint command has agreed,” said Francois calmly. “Those orders bind you as well as me, McPhee.”

“Orders have to change when the situation changes. That’s what we’re trained for. To use our initiative,” said McPhee.

“This is getting us nowhere,” said Manners equably. “Let’s be sensible-about this. You say you need a bazooka to hit German headquarters. Fine. Take two, and half the rockets. And let us have the other two for Terrasson.”

A long pause.

“Sounds good to me,” said McPhee.

Malrand shrugged. Marat nodded and waved his Russian across to join them. Igor shouldered his Schmeisser and headed down into the cave.

“And you won’t believe what’s in there,” said McPhee, turning to follow him. “Not guns, I’m talking about. It’s an art gallery down there.”

Francois fired his Sten, two short bursts, one that toppled the Russian into the pit and the other that cut down Marat. Lespinasse, not needing an order, fired a long burst into the jumble behind the tree roots, and stunned with shock, Manners saw the American crumple. Then Francois tossed a grenade.

Manners dove to the ground at his side, expecting the grenade to ignite the rockets, or more gunfire from the Spaniards in the cave. There was no cover. He hugged the ground, his hands over his head and the grenade went off with a muffled crump. Then silence. One more short burst from a Sten. Then silence.

“You weren’t much use,” said Francois.

Manners rolled over and looked at him. He was standing over the body of Marat, his gun still aimed down. Lespinasse changed magazines.

“You’re insane,” Manners said, and scrambled to his feet to look for McPhee. His torch still glowed on the ground. He picked it up and looked at the carnage. Marat was dead, the back of his head shot away. That must have been the last burst he heard.

McPhee and the Russian were tangled in the tree roots, both dead. And below them was a mass of tree limbs, shredded by the grenade. Manners plodded dully across to McPhee’s body, his mind a jumble of horror at an accident and suspicion of deliberate murder, at the hatreds of French politics, and the Spanish girl and human jealousy. The American lay on his back, his head drooping into the hole that led to the cave. Blood had spread across his face and over his shaved scalp. Sickened, he turned to Francois, his voice thick and tired, but he had to ask. “Was this politics or Mercedes?”

“Don’t be a fool. This had nothing to do with women. Lespinasse, help the capitaine clear that mess away,” said Francois, as calmly as if he were ordering dinner. “We need those bazookas.”

Manners hauled McPhee’s body clear of the tree limbs. The burst had caught him across the top of his chest and throat and the American’s head dangled. The Russian had been shot in the back, and Lespinasse helped pull him aside. Francois took the torch, and shone it down into the cave mouth. Lespinasse hauled on an arm, and it was Florien. Manners helped pull the body clear.

“Our little traitor,” said Francois.

The two Spaniards beneath Florien were jammed in the cave entrance. Lespinasse went down but couldn’t tug them free.

“Try pushing them down into the cave,” said Francois.

His back against the big taproot of the tree, Lespinasse began pushing with his feet, grunting with effort. Manners coughed with the stink of cordite, and then turned aside and retched. Down in the cave something gave, and Lespinasse called something cheerful as the tangle cleared. He crawled into the passage, and then shouted back, “It’s O.K. There’s room to stand here.”

“Let’s get our rockets,” said Francois. Manners just looked at him, still incapable of speech.

“I’m sorry about McPhee,” said Francois, as he clambered down into the cave. Then he stopped and added, “He just got caught in Lespinasse’s burst. It was an accident of war, Jacques. I liked McPhee, you know that.”

Wearily, Manners picked his way down the tree roots and into the passage he remembered. Lespinasse was