Pornichet

'Marin' raced through the soft sands of the pine forest as fast as he could. Robert, breathing heavily, kept pace. Would they be in time?

The intelligence had come late, leaving the Nantes resistance man little time to make preparations. Lacking any other ideas, he had simply grabbed a small sack containing grenades, unearthed his hunting rifle from the barn and set off for the coast on his small motor-bike.

Robert had returned home from his 'delivery' and settled happily into his kitchen to enjoy the fish stew his wife had prepared for his supper. His daughters had already eaten but had sneaked downstairs to greet their father on his return. He gave each a cuddle then packed them back to bed.

Satisfied, he put down his cutlery and smiled at his wife. She smiled back in a way that promised of things to come, before collecting the dishes and heading to the scullery. Robert glanced at the small gilt clock on the mantle. 9:45. Too early. Perhaps a digestif whilst Clara busied herself with the chores? He pushed himself to his feet to make his way to the dresser, then froze as he heard a tentative rapping on the door. He glanced at the scullery, but there was no sign that Clara had heard. Abandoning any of his earlier thoughts, he opened the door.

The man standing on his step looked cold and windblown. "There's a reception committee heading for the beach in the hope of spoiling our friends' departure plans. We've another job to do."

Robert cocked his head to one side, quizzically, then smiled wryly before reaching for his rifle and a torch. He didn't know Marin well, but he trusted him. If he was asking for help, he would do what he could.

Clara had heard the rap but ignored it. She knew what her husband did and knew, for the safety of her children, when to be blind. She looked over her shoulder and locked eyes with Marin, before looking away. There was an apology in his expression, but also a resolution. Whatever was happening tonight was important... and her husband was needed.

The motor-bike was only designed for one, but so were bicycles – and every French youth had ridden pillion with his friends on a regular basis. The vehicle might have been quicker than someone on foot, but it was also incredibly noisy. Eventually, Marin decided it was too risky to continue further, and killing the engine propped it against a tree and began to run.

Suddenly, the rattle of machine gun fire broke the silence of the pine forest. It came from some way away, but how far was impossible to tell. Marin redoubled his efforts.

Ahead, the pine trees thinned to leave a small clearing with a clear view of the beach. Prior to the war, this was probably a picnic site and somewhere for young lovers to meet.

Now it housed two motor-bikes with sidecars and four men in German uniforms, their ankle-length coats almost brushing the sand. Two of the men had set up large machine guns, supported on bi-pod mounts, on the heavy slab of a permanent picnic table. A snaking belt of cartridges protruded from each gun, each with another soldier in attendance.

The Germans were focusing intently on a small wooden dinghy, bathed in moonlight, trying to make its way out to sea.

In the dappled shadow of the trees, the assailants were not so well lit, but there was enough illumination for Marin to see what he needed to. Dropping his sack at his feet, he reached in, grasped two of the grenades, pulled the pins and threw them as hard as he could.

The shockwave from the explosions hit both Resistance men in the chest, driving the breath from their bodies. They hesitated, partly to recover, partly to assess the situation, then walked tentatively into the devastated clearing.

Marin's aim had been true and the explosion powerful. There was little that remained that was identifiably human. Robert turned away and emptied the contents of his stomach at the base of one of the pine trees. He breathed deeply to regain some control before returning to his colleague's side.

"How did they know?"

Marin shrugged. He knew, but he would keep that information to himself. Like Orleans, the Nantes cell was blown but, if he was careful others, such as Robert, would be safe. He simply hoped any reprisals resulting from the assassination would not be too great.

He declined the offer to spend the night with the local man and his family. The offer had been made for proprieties sake, rather than from a true desire to offer support, and Marin was only too happy to decline. He once more mounted the motor-bike and headed east.

Robert closed the door behind himself with some relief. He headed for the scullery where he attempted to wash away the scents of death and vomit. He was under no illusions, Clara would detect the scents of both, but she would hold her tongue.

It was approaching dawn when Marin drove through the outskirts of Nantes and made his way to his small apartment. His first task was to close down his network, give those that were able a chance to escape as best they could. After that, he filled a hold-all with a few essentials and headed for the railway station. It was unlikely that he would return to the city. Had he been in time to save Corbeau and his men? He would probably never know.