Chapter 4
Building Bridges
D-Day minus 2 months
Soldiers' rough (though period-appropriate) language ahead.
The path was muddy enough that the bicycle tyres slurped and slid. Susan rose up on the pedals, leaned on the handlebars, and pushed the bike through the puddle. She'd hammered a bumper out of tin and fixed it to the back of the bicycle so at least she would not have a stripe of wet dirt down her back.
Ladies were supposed to have delicate legs. A lady's legs should not be bruised, bumpy, and muscular. But neither should a lady's early spring cycling be along a canal lined with barbed wire. Over twenty kilometres of cycling a day was not leisurely, either.
A plane went overhead. From the sound, she thought it was a Storch.
Another push and she was free of the muck and on gravel. The "medicine" in her basket rattled on the bumpy road. Susan made the trip daily to Café Gondrée to deliver remedies for Madame Gondrée's "feminine complaints." The bottles contained coloured, scented water. The labels tied to the medicines or stuffed in the empty bottles were the reports by Georges and Thérèse Gondrée of what the Nazis from the garrison had had to say in the Café that day while drinking their beer and eating their sausages.
The road north from the Château ended at the cross street that went straight east across the Caen Canal and toward the River Orne Bridge and Ranville. Swinging her leg over the bike, Susan dismounted and walked along the road, between the Café and the Caen Canal Bridge across the street. There were two lone soldiers marching its length and it all looked lonely, cold and gray. She could hear the laughter and talking inside the Café, all in German. The garrison's soldiers liked the Café's location because they could watch the bridge from the vantage of an inside table.
Susan stepped out of the way of the Café's window and went to the corner. If she blocked their view, they would yell at her and Jeanne Lambert did not draw attention to herself. Mademoiselle Lambert was a quiet, modest young woman who peddled her rickety bike about doing errands for la comtesse Vion. Jeanne was shy and did not speak unless spoken to. Jeanne noticed everything and took very good notes.
Susan crouched down by her bike to fiddle with the chain that worked perfectly well. She watched as the two guards walked the length of the bridge, coming within a few metres of where she was. One of them nodded and said something.
Susan muttered "I don't speak German" in French and shyly returned to her bike chain. The men laughed and turned to begin their circuit again. Susan registered the individual details – hair, height, build, weight, boots, rank, marks on the uniform – anything that would identify one individual from another. Pulling a grease pencil out of her pocket, she shoved up her sleeve and made some quick marks on her arm to remind her. She'd been trying this for weeks to try to determine how many men were in the garrison. Two privates, one brown haired, one black. The brown haired one was about 170 centimetres, 65 kilos, the other taller, heavier…
With a sigh, Susan shook her sleeve back down and tucked the grease pencil away. It was extremely difficult to get an accurate headcount when they were never all in one place at the same time.
She set the bicycle against the red brick wall of the Café and pulled the wooden box with the "medicine" from her basket.
Pushing the door open with her hip, there were shouts of complaint, in German, probably because she was letting the cold in. With both hands full, there wasn't much Susan could do.
Madame Gondrée came hurrying forward with baby Françoise on her hip. She shut the door.
"Good afternoon, Jeanne!" Madame Gondrée said.
"And to you, Madame," Susan replied, following her through a swinging door to the small kitchen in the back of the Café, and out of sight of prying eyes, sharp ears, and observant, nosy collaborators. Over her mother's shoulder Françoise stared at Susan, looking very serious.
She nodded to Monsieur Gondrée, who always looked so dapper and nicely presentable, even when serving beers. He had been at Lloyd's Bank and worked in casinos in Cannes. Thérèse had been a nurse. The soldiers who frequented the Café did not know that Monsieur Gondrée spoke English, that Thérèse spoke German, and that everything they said was going through Susan back to Madame Vion and on to England.
The door swung shut behind them, dimming the noise.
"Anything?" Susan asked quietly, setting down the crate. She removed the full bottles and put the empty ones in that Thérèse had already set out on the counter.
"The officers are complaining about the arrival of new soldiers at the bridge garrison," Madame Gondrée said, bouncing Françoise.
"Complaining?" Why would they be complaining?"
"I don't know, but they have a very low opinion of them. They are expected at any time."
The noise level rose in the Café and they heard the sounds of hobnailed boots stomping out, all together.
"Thérèse! Mademoiselle Lambert! Come see!" Monsieur Gondrée called.
They hurried back to the Café. All the Germans had left. They joined Gondrée at the front window. A lorry had come from the east, across the Canal Bridge and pulled up to a stop right in front of the Café. Susan did not speak German, but she could tell the officers and NCOs outside were disgusted from their expressions.
"They are saying they are no better than Todts," Thérèse said, referring to the slave labourers of the Todt Organization who built for their pharaoh overseers of the Third Reich. She paused. "Though they are using cruder terms."
A Sergeant in the cab of the lorry got out and went around to open the back of the truck.
Soldiers began jumping out the back of the truck, lugging packs and gear. Susan could see from the uniforms they were enlisted privates, the lowest rung of the Wehrmacht. She began counting the ragged-looking men. 1, 2, 3, 4…
Whoever they were, they were going to be here for a while given the duffels. 11, 12, 13…
The Nazi officers and NCOs from the Café started yelling at and ordering the new arrivals.
The new arrivals stared at them.
The officers and NCOs from the Bridge garrison yelled louder. The new arrivals shouted back.
"Oh my goodness," Madame Gondrée said under her breath.
"What is it?" she asked.
"They are complaining that the new soldiers don't understand them!"
"Don't understand them?" Susan asked.
"Italian," Monsieur Gondrée said, shaking his head.
"You're right," Susan said. "Most of the new soldiers are speaking Italian."
"Some are speaking something else," Madame Gondrée added after a few moments as they all listened intently. "It is not German."
"Polish," Susan said, suddenly recognizing the language and so thankful for the classes at Beaulieu. "The High Command has sent the bridge reinforcements who do not speak German."
ooOOoo
By dim low lamplight, behind blackout shades, Susan prepared her report. The bustle of the hospital continued around her, with women going into labour, being admitted, and leaving with babies who were (usually) German. After discussing it with Tebbitt, Major al-Masri, and Colonel Walker-Smythe, General Gale recommended that the intelligence on the bridges would come by Lysander rather than by wireless radio. They needed detailed information and that could not be communicated in 9 minute spurts of Morse Code. Anything longer than 9 minutes and the listening Abewehr radio vans were able to pinpoint the w/t operator and arrest her.
The risk was too great, so that meant writing reports, ciphering them, and either delivering them directly to a Lysander at night or peddling them to Madame Vion's contact, a chemist in the Centurie network in Caen.
The report written, now she had to cipher it. In the rotation, it was time to use the second poem Tebbitt had written for her. Susan took a bit of paper and quickly wrote out the poem. She would burn the scrap after encrypting the report, leaving no trace of her work. Since she and Tebbitt rotated the poems with each message, even being caught with one bit of English doggerel would not help her captors in their game of Das Englandspiel, in which the Gestapo captured an agent and her codebook and then sent faked messages back to the SOE. Tebbitt expected the next poem in the rotation and if she did not use it, he would know something was wrong.
Woman of mystery
Cloaked in gold
Your smile enigmatic
Your story untold
Thread through my imagination
You are ever my queen
My heart is turbulent
Yet you are serene
My wanderings from you
A useless ploy
In your presence I'm ever
Surprised by joy
Tebbitt wrote poems for many of the agents, making them simple and easy to remember. She wrote 2 4 1 8 5 12 9 and from that he would know which poem and which lines. He knew her agent's "handwriting" so well, he would be able to decipher it regardless.
Untold. Mystery. Serene. Imagination. Joy. Wanderings.
U was A, M was B, S was C, I was D, J was E, W was F, N was G… letters would repeat, but Tebbitt said not to worry. He would understand.
First, her key, the clue that would tell Tebbitt that it was she, and she alone, who communicated. It made her so uncomfortable to use Narnia here, but Tebbitt had ordered it. She'd been caught once, already, using Narnia code to describe the real world of espionage. The more she used Narnia in spy work, the harder it was to speak of Narnia with the others. It was a hopeless muddle.
With a deep sigh, she wrote the word, Tashbaan and coded it. Then she began ciphering her report.
Conscripts arrived to increase garrison at the bridges and supplement fighting force. Officers and NCOs are career Wehrmacht and very young ethnic German. The newest enlisted soldiers are Italian conscripts and a few Poles who either do not or pretend to not speak German.
Estimate strength of garrison at 50 men.
No drilling or manoeuvres observed.
She wasn't a soldier, but they would still want her assessment. In her opinion, they were sloppy and had no training. They could not communicate to provide the training. They were conscripted, unwilling, taken from conquered countries. They might dig in, but this was not a spirited and motivated fighting force.
Poorly equipped, with French, Polish, and Italian weapons. Italians have some Stens which are mocked by Germans.
Ability to defend is moderate; counter-offensive capability is negligible.
Guards watch Caen Canal Bridge from Café. Garrison and most of the force is at the Caen Canal. Have only observed five troops defending Orne River Bridge at any one time.
Chambers for explosives under bridges are observable. They are rigged for demolition.
CO Major Schmidt spends several nights a week with lover in Ranville. Enjoys Normandy very much.
It had taken her hours to code the report. It would be another day to take the report to Caen. From there, it might be days before her report made it to Tebbitt via Lysander.
Susan added,
Situation could change rapidly. In emergency, I will send messages via w/t at 1200. Please monitor.
Rat.
ooOOoo
Peter sat back in his bunk, snuffed out his cigarette in a tin cup, and gave his boots another once over.
The air in the platoon's barrack reeked of boot polish and canal water. They'd just gotten back from a three-day bridge exercise near Trowbridge and the spring mud and river muck of Wiltshire were all over everything.
They all had to scramble up, in stockinged feet, when Lieutenant Brotheridge came into the barrack.
"At ease. And budge over Gray," Brotheridge said, sitting down on his batman's bunk. He pulled off his own boots. "Anyone got some polish?"
Gray was supposed to do that sort of thing for the Lieutenant, but Danny Brotheridge had started as one of them, just a regular enlisted bloke, a corporal, who the Major had recommended for a commission and OCTU. Danny was an officer now, but he still liked spending time here with his platoon in the barracks where he'd started, gassing about football and beer and polishing his own boots. Peter had learned more about Manchester United in the last year than in his whole life. They had been terrible and their followers all seemed to think it would be better, eventually, some day, after the War, and when hell froze. Arsenal was the platoon favourite. He'd deemed it politic to become a fan.
"How's your wife, sir?" Peter asked, starting to thread the boot laces again. "Still doing well?"
"She is, thanks. She thinks the baby's due second week in June," Brotheridge said, pulling a jackknife from his pocket. "Do your job and give me your rag, Gray."
"Does his own boots and gets all cheeky, he does," Gray said, whipping the rag at their Lieutenant.
Peter felt a brief pang – he and Edmund used to do the same game with kitchen towels and would have to hide or burn the evidence after they'd shredded them to bits in their tug-of-wars.
Brotheridge started scraping the mud off the boot soles with his knife and bits flaked onto the floor Peter had just swept. The Lieutenant looked down at the mess he was making. "Sorry, lads. I'll clean that up before I go."
"We'll make Gray do it, since he got off doin' your boots," Parr said. Parr was lying on his bunk writing a letter to his wife, Irene. Brotheridge's wife's name was Margaret. Peter knew who was married in D Company, the names of their wives, and which men were expecting babies. Parr and the others would rib him for knowing these things like a gossipy grandmother, but the High King in him would never not take polite interest in the small and large doings of each person's life.
"Everybody dried out from the exercise?" Brotheridge asked. "Word is Generals Poett and Kindersley were just cock-a-hoop about it. General Gale commended D Company for our…" Brotheridge cleared his throat.
"Good looks?"
"Drinking, smoking, and chasing skirts?"
"Tossing paras into canals?"
"For our dash and verve," Brotheridge said, affecting a posh accent.
They all laughed. Except…
"That's all to the good, isn't it, sir?" Gray asked.
Brotheridge nodded. "The best. General Gale set out the exercise himself and the Commander of the 6th Airborne didn't do that for just one Company for the hell of it."
They hadn't even been made to march to the site. They were driven to three bridges over two canals about thirty miles from the Bulford Camp. The umpires made them wait until 2300 and then they pranged. There were paras defending the bridges but they'd managed to capture the bridges intact and before the umpires declared them blown.
It had been a first class firefight and a cracking good time, even if they hadn't been shooting with live. When it was all blanks, flashes, and bangs, fists were better, anyway. The umpires hadn't been happy and the other paras from the 6th guarding the bridges definitely got the worse of D Company's fighting skills. It'd been terrific and the perfect break from the monotony of Major Howard's relentless drilling.
"Brotheridge!"
They all scrambled up as Major Howard strode into the barrack. "Boots on, Lieutenant!" the Major said. "In my briefing room. Now."
Brotheridge pushed his feet into his boots and hurried out after Major Howard.
Every man pulled out a cigarette. Peter relit the one he'd started and shared a light with Gray. No one was going to try to sleep or leave the barrack until Brotheridge came back. Whatever it was, their platoon leader wouldn't leave them in the dark.
Parr started a poker game, but Peter wasn't interested. He started a letter to Lucy, who'd been having just a wretched time in school. It was now easy to see that the transition had been hardest for her – not because she doubted Aslan or her duty to this world, but because there were so many more obstacles for her to fulfilling it. England just wasn't ready for the Valiant Queen and Lucy was determined, single-handedly, to change that thinking. It was a very tall order. The way things were going, Lucy would be the first of them to get sent down.
When Brotheridge finally came back, over an hour later, the barrack's air was thick with smoke and tension.
Brotheridge's colour was high and he was obviously excited. He plopped back down on Gray's bunk with a whoosh of air, ran a hand over his face, and grinned like the devil himself.
"Well, boys, pack your bags because you're getting two weeks of leave."
There were whoops and hollers, back slaps, and pillows tossed in the air. Brotheridge motioned everyone for quiet.
"In the meantime, General Gale has ordered D Company expanded. We're getting a platoon of sappers."
Sappers? They were combat-trained engineers. Their addition to D Company meant something was finally coming and whatever it was would involve taking something on. Bridges, Peter thought, based on the exercise they had just done. The second front was finally coming and D Company was going to be pranged onto bridges somewhere behind Hitler's Fortress Europe.
"And," Brotheridge was having to talk louder above the noise, "General Gale has ordered that two more platoons join D Company. Captain Priday is going to speak to Lieutenants Fox and Smith in B Company about bringing their squads on."
Brotheridge's news was finally so shocking that they went to silent muttering.
"It's that big, sir?" Gray asked.
Brotheridge nodded. "We need to train together for a week or two, get used to being six platoons rather than just four, be one big family, and then General Gale has laid on Exercise Mush, beginning the 21st of April."
He paused dramatically and his face turned redder and his grin wider. "Mush will involve the entire 6th Airborne. We're all going up against the 1st Airborne and a Polish para brigade."
The low mutters turned to loud, excited swearing.
Peter was too stunned to say anything and they all thought he swore like a schoolgirl anyway, so he kept his mouth shut. Brotheridge was describing a trainingexercise of over 8,000 men from the 6th alone. This was enormous.
"What're our orders, sir?" Parr asked.
There couldn't be any surprise. Between the last exercise and now the addition of 30 sappers, D Company's mission among the 6th Airborne's paratroopers was clear. The whole purpose of paratroopers was to land in enemy territory, whether by glider or parachute, and either take out specific targets or prevent the Jerrys from scuttling their own structures to keep the Allies from using them when they advanced.
"For Exercise Mush, D Company's orders are to take intact a bridge rigged for demolition across the Thames in Lechlade," Brotheridge said.
"This is the run-up, isn't, sir?" Bailey asked. "It's coming? We're invading? France? Or Belgium?"
Brotheridge stood and flicked the abandoned boot rag at Gray. "Our orders are top secret. Draw your own conclusions and don't share 'em with anyone. If the Major learns you squeaked, you'll be RTU'd and I'll personally beat you to a bloody pulp. Enjoy your leave and report back here sober and ready."
ooOOoo
"Have you decoded it yet?" al-Masri asked.
"No," Tebbitt said curtly. "Rat only sent it by w/t an hour ago. Which means she thought it was so urgent, it couldn't wait for Lysander."
"Are you sure it's from Rat?"
"First word was Ettin, uncoded. Only Rat would use that."
"True. I've informed General Gale. He has summoned Major Howard from Bulford. They'll be waiting at Broadmoor for word."
"Then be quiet, al-Masri, and let me do this."
Rat had taken no chances. She'd used the first poem, lines 2,3,4,6 and 7. It was very short, only 14 characters, plus the Ettin signal and the numbers. He could feel her urgency at the other end. It was a sense – some agents struggled with w/t, others were fluent. Jeanne-Louise Lambert spoke Morse Code as well as she spoke French and he was one of the best receivers in the SOE. They'd lost dozens of operators in the cities to the signal-detecting vans, but they weren't as active in the countryside. Rat was probably bicycling out into a field with the w/t set and sending from there. She'd only take the risk, only convince Madame Vion to let her take the risk, if it was important.
Tebbitt quickly wrote out the alphabet and the corresponding coded letters underneath.
A = R
R_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
"Can I help?"
"You can stop hovering."
F=O and it appeared twice.
RO_ _ _ _ _ _ _ O_ _ _ _
R=M and appeared three times.
ROMM_ _ _ _ _ OM _ _ _
Rommel
"al-Masri, the Gondrées and Vion have come through again. It's something about Rommel."
ROMMEL/ _ _ _ OM _ _ _
The Major looked over his shoulder. "And the next word?"
"I think it's is." T=S and that meant E=I and it appeared twice.
ROMMEL/IS/ _OMI _ _
Was he right? Yes, and if H=C.
ROMMEL IS COMING
Tebbitt tore the sheet off the pad and handed it to al-Masri who was already ordering the switchboard to phone up Broadmoor.
"Tell General Gale and Major Howard. It should go up the chain from there. Someone else is paying attention to Normady and the Bénouville bridges."
ooOOoo
Susan wanted to hate him on sight. She couldn't because she could not hate competence. Field Marshall Erwin Rommel reeked of competence as he toured the bridges between Ranville and Bénouville. The accompanying staff, his driver, and the guards in his entourage all exuded the same qualities of polite, capable, aggressive professionals. Rommel's very presence encouraged excellence. You wanted him to notice you and to recognize your own loyalty and skill.
The lustrous presence forced even Major Schmidt, the garrison's CO, to spruce up for the occasion. The garrison troops were all sober, polished, and so proud to receive the special attention of the famous Field Marshall.
The local people were no better. Everyone had come out on the bright May morning to gawk. Susan stood with the Gondrées outside the Café. Madam Vion had even condescended to leave the hospital and was introduced to some of the Field Marshall's staff. Susan suspected Madame Vion would wash her hands well once she returned to the hospital. If they had been made to wave little flags with Swastikas, it would have been intolerable. Instead it was simply a nice day watching frighteningly competent German officers look at what, from their attentive interest, seemed to be the most important bridge in all of Europe.
Unfortunately, they were too far away to overhear as the Field Marshall walked slowly about the Caen Canal Bridge. A clerk was following Rommel and he and Major Schmidt were both taking copious notes.
Susan thought Rommel was making recommendations for changes to the garrison. New defensive measures? What might they be?
"I hope they discuss it all in the Café later," Monsieur Gondrée whispered to his wife.
Madame Gondrée nodded.
They found out the next day when the Caen Canal Bridge erupted with activity. As she pedaled to the Café, Susan saw the conscripts, not drilling, but digging silt trenches along the embankments of the Bridge. Others were piling up sandbags to make machine gun nests and fortifications.
Madame Gondrée was very busy in the Café drawing beers for the soldiers. With a glance, Susan took her box of medicine and followed Monsieur Gondrée to the back kitchen.
Monsieur Gondrée began whispering to her as she removed the bottles from the box and replaced them with the empty ones Thérèse had received yesterday and emptied down the drain.
He was nervous, speaking very quickly, and referring to cryptic notes on his notepad buried in orders for beer and sausage. "They've been talking all morning about Rommel's orders. They are arming the bridge. They will install six light machine-guns and one anti-aircraft machine-gun on the west bank, surrounded by sandbags. They are going to build a pillbox on the east bank for an anti-tank gun. They will put up razor wire over all the embankments."
"The River Orne Bridge? Did they discuss that?" Susan asked, glancing at the door to the Café. She could see Madame Gondrée juggling mugs of beer and they needed to conclude quickly.
"Rommel disagrees with his command. He thinks an attack would come from the west, from the beaches, so the Canal Bridge is to be more defended. Still, they will install a machine gun and weapons pit on the River Orne Bridge, too."
Susan repeated it all and he nodded. "Yes, I think that is all." He tore off his sheet of notes and she stuffed it inside one of the medicine bottles.
"Georges!" Madame Gondrée called.
He nervously wiped his hands on his apron. "If we learn more…"
"Tell me tomorrow. This will keep me busy all night and we need to send a report as soon as possible. Madame Vion says they will send a Lysander tomorrow night."
With a parting nod to Thérèse, Susan quickly left the Café and pedaled as fast as she could back to the Château, already composing the report in her mind.
ooOOoo
It was the closest anything had felt to real combat since he'd started training. Peter could hear the planes and the whooshes of paras, and feel the air currents stirred by silent gliders overhead. There were thousands of men involved in Operation Mush scattered over three counties. It all gave him the sense of being part of something much, much larger. Not only did it finally seem closer to real combat, for the first time, Peter felt that this was bigger than anything he had ever done in Narnia.
D Company had been driven to a site late at night and then they'd marched about three miles in the dark. Now, at 0100, he was lying in the damp grass with 179 other men from six platoons and thirty combat-ready sappers. Somewhere ahead was a bridge. With so many in their Company, he hoped it was a large bridge because they'd be tripping over themselves.
Peter felt wide awake and eager. They'd done night exercises before, but never anything this large against a mock enemy. Peter had been fretting over the details and it felt good to finally be out and on the operation. How would they make out friendlies from enemy once the shooting started? They weren't using live, but that's what the umpires were there for. The umpires would be on the bridge and tell you if you shot more of your own people than the enemy by mistake, blue-on-blue fire. This wasn't a problem they'd ever had in Narnia where there were always those in his Army who could see at night and usually anything with a human shape was enemy anyway. Here, would he be able to tell the difference in the smoke and heat of battle? Peter gripped his Sten and shifted in the dirt.
That's what the exercise is for, Lieutenant Brotheridge had said. Let everyone see the problems and work them out before you needed to.
There was muttering ahead. He didn't hear the words but he felt the movement. The umpires had given them the go-ahead to begin the assault to take the bridge.
Hooper and Sweeney's platoons were moving. Peter saw Lieutenant Brotheridge signal and he and the rest of their platoon all rose and began to creep forward. The others – Smith, Fox, and Wood's platoons – were behind them.
Had Major Howard known all along they'd be doing night operations? Peter didn't think so. It was just the mark of a good commander to anticipate what would be needed and train for it so they were ready when it came. Peter had had his doubts but every step closer to combat made him appreciate anew what Major Mad Bastard had done. It was as Brotheridge had said months ago – Major Mad Bastard had turned them from a common infantry unit into commandos.
Peter heard muffled swearing up ahead and rough movement. He continued forward cautiously in a crouch with his brotherhood from the platoon around him – Brotheridge ahead and Parr, Gray, Gardner, and Bailey around him. A tangle of barbed wire rose up in front of them. It would take more than razor wire to even slow D Company down. He couldn't tell who, but there were three poor sods already lying down on top of it, creating the bridge so the rest of them could walk on the men's backs over the hazard. There was a trick to it they'd drilled on over and over – you could lie down on wire and if you did it right you hurt more from men and their gear tromping over you than the wire that was under you. Given his size and agility, Peter was usually one of the ones on the ground; he was saved from it this time only because the other platoons had gotten there first. Men on either side of the human bridge were busy cutting the rest of the wire to widen and clear the path. Peter had his cutters ready but the sappers had it taken care of in a few silent moments.
With a whispered, "Sorry," he stepped as quickly and lightly as he could over the prone body and reformed up, silently, with the rest of his platoon.
He could now just make out the bridge, about fifty yards ahead. It was good-sized, over one hundred yards long, made up of stone and arches. Against the light of the moon, he could see shapes walking its length on patrol.
The word was passed through the lines. Hooper's platoon would go first, then Sweeney, then his own.
The enormity of the task hit him hard. How were Major Howard and the rest of Command going to do this when it was real? Peter was flummoxed. Blowing a bridge was dead easy. How did you move six platoons and thirty sappers onto a bridge rigged for demolition and not have it blown from underneath you? The enemy hears the sounds of combat, sees soldiers tearing across the bridge, shooting at anything and the trigger switch would be right there, right in a bunker or tower. It would be someone's job to do nothing but sit and wait for just this eventuality. Throw the switch and the whole thing blows. The Germans knew they were coming and that it would be France or Belgium. It would be so easy.
Could Command's plan really only be that someone would make a mistake or be asleep and not throw the switch to detonate the bridge, wherever it was? It was never good planning to rely on someone else's error for the success of a mission but maybe that's all there was. Peter could not think of any better alternative. It wasn't a command decision he envied at all.
Peter crept up to position, next to Parr and Bailey, behind Brotheridge. Gray and Gardner were just behind him. The other platoons were moving swiftly and quietly toward the bridge. With all the noise of planes overhead, it was hard to hear them and that was part of the plan, too. There were guards on the bridge but they didn't seem to notice the oncoming attack. Somewhere up on the bridge, the umpires would be watching the action.
A ripple of purpose moved through the company; they didn't need a shouted order. They all knew their business. Sweeney and Hooper's platoons swarmed up the embankment, and suddenly that "dash and verve" General Gale had complimented them for didn't seem so foolish. A Company would haveto have speed, daring, skill, and luck to storm and take a bridge rigged for demolition.
Hooper's platoon tore across the bridge, Sweeney's men right behind them. Bursts of gunfire ripped the night.
"Move!" Brotheridge called and charged.
Peter hefted his Sten and rushed the embankment after his CO.
It was the chaos of every battle he'd ever been in, but so much larger.
It had only been a few seconds and there was smoke everywhere. With the sounds of thunder-crackers exploding all around them, Peter brought his gun up and jumped onto the road. Firm pavement, better footing, he ran forward, crowded by the others – Parr, Gardner, Bailey and the others were all at his back and elbows.
There was shouting. He recognized voices from his Company and heard another language – surely the enemy. But in the dark and smoke, he couldn't tell where to shoot or who. Heedless, around him, men were running forward and firing into the smoke. Peter held back, figuring all they were doing was hitting their own people. Staccato bursts erupted from down the embankment on the other side of the bridge. Acting before he even could think it, Peter pulled out a smoke bomb and tossed it into the haze on the bridge's far side. Gunfire from that direction had to be enemy and if it wasn't, he'd just killed half of Sweeney's platoon.
There was a colossal BANG, so powerful the bridge shook.
"Shit," Gardner said next to him.
"What the hell?"
Gunfire crackled behind them and Peter dove to the ground, dragging Parr and Gardner with him.
"What's…."
They heard shouting, in English.
"It's the other platoons coming up behind us," Parr said.
"Goddamnit, we're caught between 'em."
There were umpire whistles, shouts, more whistles, and the gunfire and crackers slowly stopped.
"The fuck it is!" Lieutenant Hooper was screaming. "It wasn't!"
Peter lifted his head from the gravel and pushed his helmet out of his eyes.
Damn.
A burly Sergeant, with umpire markings on his jacket and helmet, was shouting back at Hooper. "You and your platoon, sit down, Lieutenant! The Bridge is blown! You and all your company are now in a million bloody pieces or in the river!"
Parr swore under his breath and climbed to his feet.
In less than five minutes, they'd failed.
Hooper and the staff Sergeant were still yelling at each other. A second argument erupted on the other side of the bridge. Peter could see now in the light of torches that the "enemies" were the Polish paratroopers brought in for Operation Mush. That explained the foreign language. The Poles were arguing with another umpire.
"Blown! Gone! Boom!" The umpire was screaming. "The bridge was blown!"
The Poles screamed back. "Nie!," presumably "No," which was, Peter recalled from the Professor's language instruction, a universal invariant.
"No! No!"
"Ne angel-ski!" Peter thought he heard. "Ne angel-ski!"
"What the hell are they saying?" Bailey asked.
"Probably something like 'I don't speak English,'" Peter said, accepting the hand up from the ground Gray gave him.
"Goddamned bridge is blown and those Poles did it," Parr muttered. Tossing down his gun, he strode forward, waded into the scrum of arguing Poles, and slugged one of the biggest ones in the jaw.
"Plough the row!" Gardner cried. One of the Poles hauled back and landed a beautiful punch on Parr. "Can't let the boss do this alone."
Peter dropped his gun onto the road, joined Gardner, and they threw themselves into the brawl with the rest of the platoon. Guns went down with a clatter and fists went up. The umpires were frantically blowing their whistles, but he didn't care. They'd failed the mission, he was angry, and lots of Poles were going in the river tonight.
ooOOoo
"Let me look at you one final time, Jeanne."
Madame Vion made her stand and slowly turn around in her office so she could inspect every thread and hair from every angle. Whenever Susan felt impatient with the scrutiny, she remembered that there was a reason Madame Vion had not been picked up in the Centurie network sweeps. The inspection before every trip into Caen was tedious but she would not complain.
"Good," she said simply, completing her examination. From Madame Vion, "good" was high praise.
Madame Vion turned to her desk and next carefully examined the empty medicine bottles Susan would take to the chemist and Centurie contact in Caen. The chemist's bottles were made of heavy, dark glass. Around each bottle were hand printed instructions for the medicine that had been tied to the bottle with string. Two of the bottles, identical in all other respects, contained rolls of film. Using her handbag camera, Susan had photographed the Canal and River bridges and all their new fortifications. They assumed the RAF was providing aerial photo reconnaissance but England needed ground level views as well.
Susan showed Madame Vion the bottles with the film. Madame adjusted the written instructions just so and straightened the string tie on one. "Good."
With that approval, Susan carefully set the bottles with the film in the wooden box and then the other bottles on top of them. She tucked straw between the bottles and in the corners so they would not jostle and break on the bicycle ride to Caen.
"Do not eat or drink with anyone, Jeanne. Try not to speak with anyone who is French. You are very good but we take no risks. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Madame." Again, she chafed under the restrictions, but Susan had to keep her eye on the goal. They could not risk being caught and revealing the level of surveillance on the bridges.
She carried the box down the long marbled and tiled hallway of the hospital. It was quiet that morning; only one woman had come in the previous night and delivered another German baby.
Susan could not be as critical as some were of the collaboration horizontale. Women in England risked disease and pregnancy for a bit of chocolate and stockings from the Yanks who at least had access to condoms even if they didn't use them. The French had nothing. There was a difference between those who actively aided the Nazis – the informants, the horridly brutal young thugs of the Milice – and those who were simply doing what they could to survive. It was easier to agitate for resistance from the comfort of London. She had not yet determined where to draw the uncertain line.
Monsieur Desvignes, ever the gentleman, opened the front door for her. She liked Madame Vion's kind, gentile accountant very well.
"Thank you," she said and he followed her out the door and helped her settle the box in the basket of her bicycle.
"Good luck."
"And you, Monsieur."
Desvignes looked so careworn. He should have been enjoying the close of a successful career and holidays with grandchildren at the seaside. Instead he and Monsieur Lebourgeois had been ceaselessly moving materiel that had arrived by Lysander from England. They were stuffing the ambulance with guns and explosives and delivering them to the Maquis St. Claire and other cells. The Allies were looking to the Resistance to take out key bridges and railways and to harry the German reinforcements that would mobilize for a counter-attack against any Allied invasion.
The invasion was coming. They could all sense it in the warmer weather and increasingly urgent and numerous messages personnels. But when? Which full moon period – for it would have to be full moon for the pilots. At which dawn would the Allied force come ashore? Where would the stroke fall? Pas-de-Calais? Normandy? They were all anxious.
It was over eleven kilometres to Caen. The chemist was near the Bon Sauveur convent hospital in the center of town. Susan could manage the trip at a good clip, there and back, in a few hours, assuming no problems.
Today was not a day for no problems.
The early spring weather was warm, not too hot, just light and bright. It was a welcome respite from all the gray and mud. It would have been a fine day for cycling if Susan had been able to actually ride on the road instead of constantly veering off into the ditch to make room for the many tanks.
Monsieur Lebourgeois had helped her create a clicker on her handlebars that let her keep track of things she counted. After counting six tanks – they were Panzer IVs – Susan wondered if she was cycling into the middle of a Heer exercise. She pulled to the roadside to wait for another column of ten tanks and a wing of ME 109s flew overhead and methodically zigzagged across the sky. It was strange to see that dreaded fighter craft of the Luftwaffe again after the Battle of Britain and she shuddered inwardly. They were providing aerial cover, she supposed. For what?
Another column of Panzer IVs rumbled by, stirring up dust and gravel. They were accompanied by a mounted anti-aircraft gun, probably a Flakpanzer. The clicks on her handlebar counter increased to 28 tanks.
This was not a mere exercise. A large fighting group of tanks, maybe even an entire division, was taking up positions around Caen. Though, why were they not heading north to the beaches at Luc-sur-Mer or Ouistreham, which was where an Allied landing would surely come? Why here, twenty kilometres away, which was too far inland to repel a landing force?
The traffic slowed a few kilometres from town and Susan realised they were in a queue for a checkpoint. She slowed on her bicycle and finally stopped as a solider waved her to a stop. She dismounted and walked the bike, resisting at every step the urge to open the box and fiddle with the bottles. Her hand went for a moment to the button sewn in her blouse and the cyanide tablet hidden there, making sure it was secure and safe. It was macabre, but she never went anywhere without a method for ensuring her own death.
Sometimes the checkpoints were cursory and conducted by rough, surly privates.
This was something else entirely. A gate blocked the road into Caen. At the roadblock there were several armored cars and a tent. The operation was manned by crisp staff sergeants, smart-looking privates, and a young, clean cut Leutnant overseeing it all. To the side, there was a staff car with officers of even higher ranks, with binoculars, making notes on clipboards as the tanks were waved through the checkpoint. Another Me 109 buzzed overhead and the pilot dipped the plane's wings in salute. The officers were sporting an insignia she had not seen before – a yellow capital D with a line through it. Two Panzers, also IVs, guarded the checkpoint; the soldiers lounging on the turrets were wearing the same badge.
Practically no one was driving now since there was no petrol and it was so difficult to keep the wood burning vehicles running. But there were dozens of people, mostly women and a few old men, on bicycles and several horse and mule driven carts. They all waited as the soldiers methodically checked each person's identity card and poked about the carts and looked inside bicycle baskets.
Jeanne-Louise Lambert let out a deep breath and settled deeply into her role. It was natural to be nervous. Everyone was nervous. The people waiting were speaking to one another quietly, warily watching the soldiers and the tanks. Susan kept to herself. The bicycle tyres crunched on the gravel road as she moved slowly forward in the queue.
The difference between these men and the garrison at Bénouville could not have been starker. She spotted decorations on pressed uniforms that signified veterans of North Africa and the Eastern Front. These were not conscripts. These men were hardened professionals of the Wehrmachtwho had been fighting and, until very recently, winning all over Europe and North Africa for years.
They did not seem nervous or hostile, as if they were looking for someone in particular. It was, she felt, a routine and very professional checkpoint. She looked carefully for Gestapo or anyone out of uniform who appeared to be assisting, such as a member of the Milice who would be listening carefully for faked accents and mannerisms that betrayed someone to be a non-native spy. She saw only professional military men, which was itself daunting.
The elderly woman ahead of her was passed through with only a cursory look.
"Papers please," the soldier said, in heavily accented, awkward French. From his insignia, Susan inferred he was a Feldwebel, a Sergeant.
"Yes, here, sir," she replied meekly and handed him her card.
The supervising Lieutenant looked over the Sergeant's soldier at her identity card and then took it from him. He held it up to the light, turned it over, and studied the markings.
"Your name?" the Lieutenant asked. His French was very good with the same Alsatian accent of Thérèse Gondrée.
"Jeanne-Louise Lambert, sir," she replied, steady and deferential.
"What are you doing so far from home in Caen?"
"I am the niece of the administrator at Château de Bénouville, sir. It is the local women's hospital. I was studying nursing before the war and now help there."
The Lieutenant handed her card back to the Sergeant. "Make note of it!" he said. "This is what a proper card looks like."
"And where are you going?" the Lieutenant asked, now scrutinizing her bicycle. His eyes fell on her counter on the handlebars and he gave her querying look.
"To mark the time and distance as I cycle, sir. And I am going to Caen, to the hospital's chemist."
The Sergeant was also looking her over in a professional way, probably seeking telltale bulges under her clothing that could conceal a weapon or explosives. "What is in your basket?" he asked. Like the Lieutenant, he was polite, but firm.
"Bottles for the chemist to fill, sir." She lifted the lid off the box so he could see inside.
"And what will they be filled with, Mademoiselle?" the Lieutenant asked. "Explosives? Illegal petrol?"
"Oh no, sir!" Jeanne exclaimed. "The hospital needs more medicines made up for our women patients!" She looked around nervously and dropped her voice so that only her two interrogators might hear. "They need relief for their feminine complaints." She picked up one the bottles from the box and showed them the label. Whispering, Jeanne said, "See, sir? It says To be taken as needed for pain and severe bleeding caused by monthly…"
As Madame Vion predicted, the horror at the prospect of information about a woman's menstrual cycle was enough to stop the most determined Nazi interrogator cold.
"Yes! Enough!" the Lieutenant said, pushing the bottle away. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. Please, put it away."
The Sergeant was not so shocked and looked amused by the younger man's discomfiture. From the quirk of a smile in her direction, Jeanne suspected the older, but more junior, solider was married.
"Sorry, sir," she muttered and put the bottle back in with the others and closed the lid of the wooden box. "I will just be on my way with your permission."
The Sergeant handed her back her identity card and Jeanne tucked it in her pocket again. Again she felt that he was watching her carefully for anything that shouldn't be on her person.
The Lieutenant was in charge, but the Sergeant was no fool, either.
"Will you be returning this afternoon?" the Lieutenant asked, his normal colour returning.
"Yes, sir," Jeanne replied.
"Perhaps we will see you again." He gestured and stepped out of the way. "You may continue."
"Thank you, sir."
"If you have difficulty, tell whoever questions you that Lieutenant Becker and Sergeant Müeller cleared you. We will not let it be said that we prevented women from receiving their medical care."
"Thank you, sir."
ooOOoo
Though we are distant,
our souls are together.
They journey far beyond
our existence,
Keep me in your mind,
as I keep you in my heart.
They fly together,
when we cannot.
Ettin 3 2 3 4 6 7 1
Together. Journey. Existence. Heart. Fly. Distant.
A=T, B=J, C=E, D=H, E=F, F=D…
The 21st Panzer has taken up positions around Caen. Estimate strength at over 100 Panzer IV's. Includes many veterans of the Afrika Corps. Under command of General Feuchtinger a veteran of Battle of the Somme.
The 125th has taken positions east of Caen. Commanded by Von Luck. Very highly regarded by local garrison. Veteran of Poland, France, Eastern Front and Africa. Reported very close to Rommel.
Garrison NCOs say 21st is Rommel's favourite division; 125th is best equipped in the whole Corps. They are in very good spirits.
Rommel has ordered flooding of the fields in the area west of the River Dives to disrupt paras. Allied paratroopers landing in the area may drown.
Garrison CO Schmidt feeling pressure. Only seeing girlfriend once a week. Has cleared buildings near Canal Bridge for clearer lines of sight.
All construction completed at both bridges. Ditches and razor wire complete. Anti-aircraft gun and sandbag nests in place. At Canal Bridge anti-tank gun installed in concrete pillbox.
Both bridges are rigged for demolition in anticipation of assault. One garrison solider said, "The bridge will explode the minute any enemy boots touch it."
They are ready. Every day of delay gives them another day to prepare.
Rat
To follow, Chapter 5, To War, D-Day minus one month to D-Day minus one hour and 44 minutes.
An enormous thanks to Ladyofthelight101 and Clio for the poetry.
The descriptions of D Company's exercises and the Operation Mush exercise, including the mock blown bridge, the argument between Lieutenant Hooper and the umpire, and D Company's fistfight with the Polish paratroopers tasked with defending it are taken from my Pegasus Bridge source material. It emphasizes that D Company was a bunch of troublemakers with lots of drinking, smoking, and swearing. The swearing is taken from General Patton's D-Day speech, and so is slightly American-ized for the average British Tommy enlisted man (RO). However, given that D Company has been fighting with the Americans stationed at Tidworth over girls in the Salisbury pubs, I'm assuming they picked up their language there.
The medicine bottles, the contact in Caen, Lieutenant Becker, and Sergeant Mueller are all invented. Rommel's visit to the Caen Canal bridge is memorialized in photographs.