The Forests of the Night

So, I walked away from Marcel with a clear conscience. He had been the source of a lot of misery. Now all I needed to do was get his five victims to safety.

I strode into the salon, only to find that Bernadette had already organized the women. I should have expected that. The three I'd initially seen, and Aurore, were modestly dressed. It looked, like they were going for a ride in the country. They were all well-bred girls from good families. Naturally they would have packed suitable clothes; that is, before they were kidnapped.

They had a new woman with them. She couldn't stand on her own. Aurore and one of the women supported her. They were all weeping, even Bernadette. The madam was quivering naked in the corner.

I walked over to her and said, "You have committed unforgivable crimes against your Country and your Countrywomen. I will not kill you. However, we are going to have to tie you up. If you tell the Germans, before we get away, I will make a point of hunting, you down and killing you in a very painful and degrading manner.

The woman nodded meekly. She said, "Marcel made me do it. I was disgusted by it all." I let her survive. But. I also felt a lot better about the swathe of destruction that I had cut through that awful place.

We loaded the Peugeot, five girls in the back, sitting on each other's lap. Stephanie, who had damage done to her lady-parts sat up front with me. The girls we'd rescued were all Jewish. So, I was headed for the synagogue on the Boulevard Mauger.

How did I know that there was one there? Madame Ferlin told me. She was also Jewish. It was part of the hold that Marcel had over her.

The synagogue was a big stone building that might have been a residence at one time. It had a well-maintained iron fence in front of it and a gate. I stopped the car, got out and opened the gate. The six women squeezed themselves out of the car.

Bernadette strode resolutely through the gate and up to the door. The others trailed timidly behind; Aurore and another girl still supporting their friend. Stephanie looked like a wounded warrior returning from the front. In many respects, she was.

I drove the Peugeot back through the roundabout at the end of the Boulevard and abandoned it next to the Deauville Bassin. The Bassin was full of Hun E-boats. That underlined the jeopardy we were in. I could handle a few French goons. But I wasn't going to be able to take on the entire German navy.

I exuded innocence as I got out of the car and sauntered back to the synagogue. I'd let the Heinies figure out how Marcel's vehicle ended up at one of their naval facilities.

I knocked on the door and was admitted by a wizened old man. I assumed he was the Rabbi.

I'd stopped going to church when I began working the docks, and Lutherans aren't exactly cognizant about other religions anyhow. So, I knew zip about the Jews, only that the Nazis seemed to have a "thing" for them.

The old man was kindly. He knew that I was the one who had delivered the girls. He didn't know what I had done to free them. If he had; perchance, he might view me differently.

He directed me to the cellar. That seemed to be the typical place to find Jews in occupied France.

The girls were being soothed and reassured by my stalwart little partner. All of them were suffering from what we used to call "shell shock." They had the classic symptoms; passive, withdrawn, thousand-yard stare, and nervous. They must have gone through hell.

The girl Stephanie was being examined in a secluded corner. It was being done by an older woman who radiated competence. She was clearly either a doctor, nurse, or midwife.

However, the thing that caught my attention was the big short-wave radio sitting in the other corner. A young man was working a telegraph key. The Rabbi came up next to me and said, "The Temple is a place of worship. But it is also traditionally a place of resistance. How were these girls harmed?"

I said, "They and their families are victims of an unspeakably wicked plot. The Germans created the situation, with their pogrom against your people. But their own countrymen sold them into sexual slavery. I have already closed the account on all-but one, and he is living on borrowed time."

The Rabbi gave me a look that distilled the travails of the Jewish people into a single glance and muttered, "Good!".

I added, "They were trying to get to safety. Can you help them?"

He brightened and said, "Of course we can. We have secure shortwave contact with the British. We are so close to the German naval base that it is impossible for the Germans to sort out our signal via RDF. We talk to England regularly and we can arrange to evacuate these women via ship."

Bernadette had drifted up to my side as I spoke to the Rabbi. I turned to her and said with triumph in my voice, "Get the girls ready. We are going to England."

*****

Heavy fog is a common phenomenon in the English Channel, particularly in the late spring. And we were in the middle of a classic pea-souper. That was a good thing, and part of the plan.

The French fishing boat was at the rendezvous point. Rabbi Blum's little cell of intrepid agents had arranged that with the Brits. We were waiting for the arrival of the Motor Torpedo Boat, which had been sent from Southampton.

As might be expected, the British considered my information valuable. The extent and shape of the French underworld's collaboration with the Germans was something the Brits wanted to know about, if only for their own intelligence purposes. That justified the pickup.

The deal was simple. They would settle the girls in permanent and comfortable surroundings. In return, we would tell them everything we knew about French criminal activity in support of the Germans.

None of the woman had families anymore. So, they would be leaving France, for a new life in England. It would be a difficult transition. But, it was light-years better than living as a whore in a German Army bordello.

I knew that Aurore would marry well, once the male population of Great Britain got a glimpse of her. She was still a voluptuous little sex-pot.

It took a couple of weeks to arrange the pickup. The girls spent it recovering in the basement of a house in Benerville-sur-Mer, which was a couple of miles away from Deauville, right on the ocean. The house was a Resistance operations center.

The irony was that the Germans, whose troops were Marcel's customers, were building a huge battery on the hill right behind the town. The girls' ability to hide next to a German installation illustrated the problem the Hun's had unraveling the strands of the civilian population.

The French were just getting the resistance rolling in 1941. It was a small group, who mostly did intelligence gathering and some sabotage of sensitive targets. The vision and courage of those people impressed me. They had given up their comfortable lives, while most of their countrymen simply accepted the Nazi yoke: as a cost of doing business.

I began to wonder if they couldn't use a man with my particular set of skills.

We heard the sound of the big Packard engines off in the distance. The Resistance guys who were manning the boat started the clickity-clack Morse signaling with the Aldis lamp on top of the deckhouse of the trawler.

A long, grey, lethal shape emerged from the fog and maneuvered next to our boat. It was one of the Brit's Vosper Motor Torpedo Boats, or MTB's. Those things were heavily armed and could do fifty miles an hour on the water. So, they were perfect for this kind of clandestine work.

The two boats were tied together to make the transfer. Fortunately, the swells were at a minimum. We would have had a problem if it had been rough weather. I had my arm around Bernadette as they began to assist the women on-board. She was looking at me with love and pride.

It was time for me to tell her.

I said, "Well we made it doll. We saved your friend. Now I need you to get on that boat and finish the job." She looked at me alarmed. I hesitated. It was killing me. But, I knew what I had to do.

Two months ago, I was a humble bartender without a care in the world. My only interest was keeping my head down and serving the drinks. The Germans were everybody else's problem.

Then this brave, passionate and virtuous little woman came into my life and taught me about self-sacrifice and commitment to others. Her innate sense of honor, her humanity and strength of character had made me into a much better person, one who couldn't just stand by and let other people do the fighting.

So, I was going to stay in France and work with the Resistance. I knew that they could use an old doughboy, somebody who spoke fluent German and was good in a fight. And, I knew that Bernadette could give the Brits the same intelligence that I could.

Somebody had to go along with the girls. It was part of the deal, and the thought of my dear little woman safe in England, out of harm's way, would free me to do whatever was necessary to help her cause.

I looked into her beautiful, shining eyes and said, "I'm not going with you doll. Somebody has to stay and straighten out Hitler, and I think I'm the man for the job."

Her heart shattered. I could see it in her eyes. My own heart had already been broken. It happened the moment I arrived at my inescapable decision. She let out a little cry of anguish and threw her arms around me. She said, "Then I'm staying with you. We can fight them together."

She planted the hottest kiss on me. I reciprocated. Then I unwound her arms and said, "That's not the way this deal works. We have to tell the British chapter-and-verse what happened."

I looked at her, willing her to understand, and said, "You can do that as well as I can. The Brits are risking their necks to pick us up, and they are going to give Aurore and the rest of these women new lives and hope. But, they need something in return. So, you have to do this. We can't leave them high-and-dry."

I could see acquiescence come into her eyes. Bernadette was an intelligent and pragmatic woman and she understood that she was the key to the deal. So, she had to go, to help those poor women.

She let out a little sob. And without another word she turned and walked resolutely toward the MTB. She faced me bravely, with tears in her eyes and mouthed, "I go where you go." It was what she had promised me after we first made love; a hard-case like me? tears in his eyes – impossible?

Then she raised her arms to allow the British sailor to pull her up and onboard the MTB. The three Packard engines roared into life. The big grey warship circled like a marauding shark and headed back into the fog. My last sight of Bernadette was her sweet, crying face.

*****

It was 3 AM and a dozen of us were crouched in the bocage surrounding a clearing outside Bayeux. I was leading a Macquis cell now. I had hooked up with them after I returned from Paris.

I had journeyed down there to settle a debt. Robert was astonished to see me. He passed away shortly thereafter. It was an agonizingly slow and painful death. The ledger was officially closed.

It had been a rough couple of years. The pace had picked up a lot since the Americans entered the War. And, the Macquis forces in Normandy had expanded. We were now so well organized, that we were coordinating on a regular basis with the Brits Special Operations Executive, or the SOE.

Their agents came and went with our assistance, executing their missions and then returning to Great Britain. I could also see the endless formations of Fortresses passing overhead and we regularly helped airmen who didn't make it back. We handled that exfiltration the same way we had smuggled the girls.

The Huns were getting all they could handle from the Russians. As a consequence, the soldiers stationed in Normandy were the sort of troops you wouldn't want in combat, too young, too old, wounded, or just too hopeless to be of use anywhere else.

I had gotten to the point where I only thought about Bernadette every ten minutes. I yearned for her constantly. That was a laugh. A mug like me pining away like a starry-eyed teenager. It was fucking embarrassing.

But the truth was, Bernadette's image was resting in the niche in my heart that was reserved for the one person I loved more than life itself. As corny as THAT might sound, it was the plain and simple truth.

I wondered what Bernadette and Aurore were doing. Those two beauties must be fending off herds of dashing and handsome British men. The thought gave me fits of jealousy. But that was the choice I had made, and it was something I was going have to live with.

I was a professional tough-guy. I knew I could face-up-to even THAT. Nonetheless, it was a painful burden to bear, and the deep longing never went away.

The Macquis did its best to make the Hun's life miserable. That mainly amounted to sabotaging their armored trains.

The Heinies brought men and material up to the Atlantic Wall via rail. Regular trains were vulnerable to air strikes. So, the Germans loaded their critical stuff onto railcars with armor and antiaircraft weaponry.

Those were tough nuts to crack. Even for the rocket firing British Typhoons and the big lethal American Thunderbolts. So, the Macquis cracked 'em for them.

The Huns were beginning to feel the heat as both the British and the Americans probed the Atlantic Wall. So, they were stepping up their military traffic to Normandy. We all knew that the big show would be in the Pas de Calais. The group I'd hooked on with was in Normandy. But, we still tried to do our part.

Tonight's dark of the moon exploit was to restock our larder of Sten guns and Amatol; as well as to deliver some French super-agent.

The Sten wasn't elegant. But it was so easy to operate, that it could turn your grandmother into a killing machine. The agent was a super high priority delivery for the SOE.

That's the reason why we were hiding in the shrubbery waiting for the Westland Lysander to make its final approach. We'd carefully cleared and marked the landing field. Then we humble peasants would roll out the red carpet for the arriving French hot-shot.

The Lysander was a remarkable aircraft. You could almost land it in your backyard and it could deliver a lot of useful cargo. The pilot came in low, like they always did to avoid the Heinie's radar. The Lysander would be mincemeat if it ran into a real fighter.

He landed hard and taxied over the bumpy field, jazzed the engine to turn for takeoff and then parked.

The aim is always quick in-and-out. So, we rushed to unload. I was picking up a crate of Amatol - very gingerly I might add. Detonating it would cause a big boom and produce a large hole in the ground, where I used to be standing.

The VIP passenger opened the door of the Lysander and climbed down the steps. This was the guy who was going to bring us humble Maquisards, the gospel according to Winston Churchill.

The fellow was supposed to be expert in explosives and train ambushes. Those were the exploits that we ran the most. The Brits had spent a lot of money and time teaching this dude all the latest tricks. The aim was to have him bring the new Resistance fighters up to snuff, not do the ambushes himself. That was what expendables like yours-truly were for.

It was a brilliant strategy, really. We had plenty of willing volunteers. But they were mostly useless. That was because they didn't have any of the necessary skills. An expert in the fine art of mayhem, like this guy, was a valuable addition to our merry band.

But, it still pissed me off. The last thing I wanted was some snotty Frenchman meddling in my business. Nonetheless, there was a war to fight and we all had to make sacrifices. So, I was even willing to endure this new clown. That is, if his tradecraft was as good as everybody said it was.

I wondered if he had run into Bernadette? Maybe he could tell me how she was doing." Then the godawful thought struck me, "Maybe he's FUCKING Bernadette?" It would be my luck. She's THAT beautiful and they WERE both French.

That nugget of speculation spiked my jealousy meter. But I told myself that I was the one who had chosen to stay. With that depressing thought in mind, I bent down and picked up the heavy crate of Amatol. I hefted it and began to walk away, muttering a surly, "Welcome to the War, pal," over my right shoulder

Amatol isn't as volatile as nitroglycerine. But it is still something that you handle with extreme care. Of course, the very last thing you want to do is drop it. That almost happened when the new French super-agent replied in a sweet husky voice, "I told you, I go where you go. My love has no conditions."

****

The place was full of cigarette haze and joy. It was New Year's Eve 1944 and events had come full circle.

Bernadette and I were sitting next to the piano while Boggsy played the best jazz in Paris. The City had been liberated in the late summer and it was now serving the same purpose as it had back in 1918; a place to blow off steam.

Boggsy'd found his own Resistance group. But, being Boggsy, he had managed to stay in Paris. His group was the OSS's legendary "Black Rattlers." That outfit was a collection of African-American ex-pats. Even Josephine Baker worked for them.

The Master Race paid no attention to people like Boggsy. Because after all, they were untermensch; servants and entertainers. That was indeed a fatal error. Because, those were the people who heard and saw everything and could go anywhere unnoticed.

Boggsy still kept the ladies satisfied. He just had a side job; working for the OSS. He had an intricate and captivating style in both his keyboarding and his garroting.

A lot of war was yet to be fought. But, Bernadette and I had done our part. The Germans had spooked us with a major offensive in the Ardennes a couple of weeks earlier. It caused a bulge in our lines. But the word was that the Heinies had been stopped on Christmas day, at a place called Bastogne.

I looked at the humble gold band on my love's finger and smiled. She was gazing back at me with the same adoring look. She knew what I was thinking. It had been a thrilling couple of years. Now, we were ready to enjoy married life.

We had spent the past two years blowing up rail lines and bridges and dodging Nazis. Bernadette never left my side. She told me that she joined the SOE as soon as she was sure that Aurore didn't need her any more. Because her only aim was to get back to me.

I had a hard time while we were apart. But, from her description, it sounded like she might have had it tougher. She went through a rigorous program in the Scottish Highlands. It was the same place the Brits trained their commandoes.

I had changed a lot since my bartending days. But, my dear Bernadette had evolved even more. She used to be a gorgeous French aristocrat. She was still that. But, now, she was also a tough and efficient little killer.

We were equal partners in everything we did. We blew a lot of bridges and ambushed a lot of trains. Our love grew with the danger we faced. We fucked in caves, bombed-out buildings and hidden basements, and it was touch-and-go at times. But my steadfast little companion was always by my side; blazing Sten gun held delicately in her exquisite aristocratic hands.

And, through it all we managed to make a slight difference in what happened on the sixth of June.

*****

It was an overcast and rainy Tuesday morning. We were just waking up in the operations center in Benerville, when all hell broke loose on the hill behind us.

We rushed outside to see a firestorm of heavy shells landing on the Mont Canisy battery. I looked out to sea and there were three big battleships blasting the shit out of the Hun gun positions.