His Enemy, His Friend Page 4

  As the farmer watched he heard a sudden report, like a shot from a hunting rifle, not loud like an army-weapon, being fired. At first he was not sure what had happened. To his amazement, one moment the officer was striding down the street, then he was stretched out on the pavement. As he crumpled, one arm fell behind in a peculiar gesture.

  A siren went off. Soldiers rushed from a house, rifles at the ready. A tall, black-haired sergeant ran into the street as the siren kept screaming.

  All around, soldiers appeared. By this time the farmer Marquet was near enough to see blood on the spotless tunic of the officer who lay, legs outstretched, on the pavement. Two medical corpsmen opened his blouse and listened to his heart.

  The tall, black-haired man in charge was exploding orders, pointing first to one side of the street, then the other. A group of soldiers began working the left side. If the door of a house was locked, they pounded it in with rifle butts. From windows on the second floor, shutters opened and frightened faces of women appeared. The same words echoed back and forth.

  “Pas possible!”

  “Pas possible!”

  Who could have done such a thing? “Impossible! And here in Nogent-Plage!”

  Suddenly the farmer Marquet’s horse was stopped, and he was yanked roughly to the ground. Two helmeted young soldiers gripped him, two others searched him, but to his surprise did not ask for his Ausweiss. They merely hustled him across the road.

  He tried to protest. “Voila, I only happened to be in town for the moment. I came in from my farm at La Roye for a load of seaweed, for fertilizer. M’ssieurs... for my land. I live... over there... back of the dunes....”

  Not understanding what he was saying and not caring, they pushed him along. Quite plainly they were taking him someplace. A strange and terrible fear seized him, not for himself but for his horse. The horse was being left behind, his only friend, all he had. The beast realized his master was leaving him and whinnied loudly. Then the farmer heard that familiar clop-clop as the horse attempted to follow.

  “Sebastian! Sebastian!” he shouted, twisting halfway around in the grip of the soldiers.

  The horse, pulling the heavy cart, fell farther and farther behind, the reins dragging on the pavement.

  “Sebastian!” shrieked the farmer, realizing what was happening and where, in all probability, he was being taken. In utter despair he cried out, “Ah, who will take care of Sebastian when I am gone?”

  Chapter 9

  THE FELDWEBEL SANK into the chair of the murdered officer. His cap was on the desk before him. He reflected grimly that he had rushed into the street at the sound of the shot without a cap, something the Hauptmann had never done in all his army life. Before the Feldwebel were the neat piles of orders—orders from field headquarters in Bayeux, orders from Division Headquarters in Caen, orders from the High Command in Berlin. Each pile was carefully clipped and filed chronologically, according to regulations.

  He took up the telephone. “Major Kessler at Division Headquarters,” he said to the operator in the blockhouse.

  Replacing the phone he sank forward with his head in his hands. What idiot could have done this? So great was the misery of the Feldwebel Hans, so keen his understanding of what had happened and, more important, of what lay ahead, that a cry of agony burst from him there in the empty room: “Ach, du Lieber Gott.”

  The telephone rang. Immediately he straightened up, controlled himself. “This is the Feldwebel von Kleinschrodt.”

  “Good. Major Kessler here. Have your men been alerted, Feldwebel?”

  “Indeed yes, Major. But I have bad news to report. The Hauptmann Seeler has just been shot by a terrorist.”

  “Shot? Impossible! I talked to him an hour ago....”

  “Yes, Major, it just happened. He was dead in the middle of the street when the men reached him.”

  “Good God! Have you found the assassin?”

  “No, Major, not yet, but the men have sealed up the village and are making a house-to-house search. They will surely turn him up.”

  “He must be found, must be found, and made an example of. Execute him publicly. Let me talk to the Oberleutnant Schmidt.”

  “Herr Major, he is at the Defense School at Ostend.”

  “Well then, the Leutnant—what’s his name?—Wirtig, isn’t it?”

  “Sir, he is on leave in Bremen.”

  “All leaves were cancelled as of yesterday. He should be back this afternoon. For the moment you are the senior officer there. To be sure, we will get another officer to you immediately, for with these terrorist raids up and down the coast Schmidt and Wirtig may have trouble returning. Let me see, perhaps the Leutnant Brandt from Blockhouse 242.... No, that won’t do, we need him for those big guns; he is a specialist. Let me see now. Ach, what a time for this to happen! That Polish chap, that Silesian in Blockhouse H98. No, he is a meteorologist and needed where he is. Well, we’ll get someone to you as soon as possible. In the meantime, Feldwebel, until the criminal is found, six hostages should be taken into custody. Here” — he turned to someone in his office — “get me that folder on Nogent-Plage, Beckenbauer. We were discussing it with the Hauptmann Seeler a short while ago.... No, you didn’t put it back. Ah, this is indeed a bad moment for a thing of this sort, and with two officers away.... Now, here it is. According to this, you have a teacher there named Martin. No, V-Varin, have you not? Right. Do you know the man?”

  The Feldwebel froze. Faced with what lay ahead, he could not speak. The Major continued.

  “Are you there, Feldwebel? Do you hear me? Those damned terrorists have been cutting wires all along the coast today. I say, are you there? Do you know this man? I can’t hear you. Do you know him? It appears he is a Communist....”

  Finally the Feldwebel found his voice. “Yes, you are right, Major. I believe he is a Communist. But never active to my belief. I’ve known him three or four years now and—”

  The other broke in. “They’re all alike, all of them, these damned Communists. I’ve had a lot of experience with them; they don’t care a bit for the land where they were born and raised. Moreover, this one is Jewish.”

  For a few seconds the Feldwebel was stunned. How, he wondered, had this ever reached Caen? “No one ever said he was Jewish, Herr Major,” he suggested tentatively.

  “The records show it. I cannot understand how he was ever permitted to remain in that sensitive area all these years. Someone has blundered badly, and I intend to discover who it was. At any rate, get him now. Then there is another chap, man by the name of Lavigne. Runs the café on the Grande Rue.” He read from a paper. “‘A hangout for dubious characters.’ So the report states. Here it is. ‘To be watched. Owner was mixed up with terrorists at the time of the Dieppe raid in ’42.’ We suspect him also. Is there a priest in the village?”

  This was too much. In the mind of the Feldwebel rose the picture of old Père Clement with his soutane tied up around his waist and those thick cotton underdrawers. “Why yes, Major, there is, but actually the local padre is old and inoffensive. Not at all the kind of person to give us any trouble....”

  “Feldwebel, we are making examples of these men. Was anyone taken at the time of the murder?”

  “No, Major, that is... only an old farmer from the back country. He merely happened to be passing in his cart at the time. He knows nothing whatever....”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupted the officer impatiently. “You miss the point. Get him. Or did he escape? Did you pick him up?”

  “Yes, Major, we have him. Only, if you would permit, sir, I’d like to suggest....”

  “No comments necessary, Feldwebel. Just obey orders. We want six—the teacher, the café proprietor, the old farmer, the priest, a fisherman, a boy perhaps. Give them one hour in which to confess. If the culprit is not found and none of them confesses, make an example of them. Have them shot. As a warning, you understand, to other terrorists.”

  “Yes, Major, I quite understand.”

  “Good
. Now for your personal information as you are in charge at Nogent-Plage temporarily. Terrorists have been at work up and down the coast since dawn. This line may be cut any minute. We have patrols out, but the bridge at Varengeville has been blown up and the highway below Dampart completely destroyed. Hence, as far as reinforcements are concerned, you are isolated for the time being. In fact, we are all isolated. Fécamp is isolated. So is Étretat. We are on our own, Feldwebel. Is that quite clear?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Major.” It was only too clear. For the first time in his long years at Nogent-Plage the Feldwebel Hans felt the isolation and the loneliness and the danger. They were Germans in a hostile land, about to be attacked from the front and perhaps the rear. The Major went on.

  “Meanwhile, do not forget. The defense rests in your hands. You are responsible.”

  “We are ready, sir,” he replied resolutely. After all, perhaps a way out could be found. Perhaps, he thought, the invasion will intervene; perhaps they won’t be shot.

  The Major lowered his voice. “For your information, Feldwebel, we are advised that the invasion fleet is now in mid-Channel, making about six knots. Most likely they are planning an early-morning assault, hoping to be covered by this fog. It is thick here at present. And at such a moment! Feldwebel, only one thing counts. The Fatherland. Our country is in peril. The Greater Reich faces its most critical hour. Your first duty is to round up the six hostages. Unless the assassin of the Hauptmann Seeler is found within the hour, have a firing squad shoot them. Report to me as soon as you have them in custody. Remember, this is not a football game....”

  The Feldwebel started to say something, but the Major cut him short. “I repeat, Feldwebel von Kleinschrodt, this is not a football game. Understand? Heil Hitler.”

  He rang off. The Feldwebel rose from the desk. There was tragedy ahead. And he was in the middle of it. To shoot, to kill a friend. In a way, they were all friends. But they were also enemies of his country, and he was in charge at Nogent-Plage. He represented the Third Reich for the moment. What choice did he have? He was responsible for the safety of his men. There were the orders.

  “Corporal Eicke,” he called out, yanking down his tunic with the same gesture the Hauptmann Seeler had used at the same desk just a little while ago.

  First, of course, comes one’s country.

  Chapter 10

  THE FARMER MARQUET half fell, half stumbled down the badly lit stairs. He picked himself up and looked around. He was in the cellar of the Bloch villa.

  Opposite was a narrow, oblong, barred window through which came a dampness from the sea. He noticed a fog was collecting, for the wind had died away. On the other side of the stairs another small window gave onto a vacant lot where, he knew, the boys of the village practiced football. There was no glass in either window.

  The earth floor of the cellar was moist. The place was filled with odds and ends left behind by the Jewish Bloch family when the war had burst upon them, driving them from Nogent-Plage. Where were they now? What woman had used that rusty sewing machine? What child had played with that faceless doll? Who had sat on that old wooden bench or those chairs without backs?

  He slumped down on the bench. The thought of Sebastian with the load of seaweed standing patiently in the street above struck him with such a stabbing pain that he groaned aloud.

  “Ah, Sebastian,” he cried. “And my poor Pierre in Germany. He will never know what happened to his old father.”

  The door at the top of the cellar opened and light penetrated the gloom. He glanced up from his misery as Lavigne, in his dirty white apron, was shoved roughly downstairs. The café owner, a stout man, picked himself up, rubbing his hip.

  “But,” he shouted, “I tell you I had nothing whatever to do with it. I was inside washing dishes. I was inside when the shot was fired. I had nothing to do with it.” Then realizing that nobody was listening, he saw the futility of his protestations and shook his fist at the door above. “Ah, those Fridolins, those barbarians!”

  The door opened again, and a German voice said, “Unter....”

  Monsieur Varin, the teacher, was pushed down. Next came the Père Clement and young René Le Gallec, with whom he had been practicing football. The priest picked himself up as the door slammed and shouted, “But I had nothing to do with the shooting of the Hauptmann. I was playing football beside my church with this boy. The Herr Oberst knows I could have had nothing to do with it. He passed by, himself, but a short while before. He played with us. Ask the Herr Oberst....”

  The door opened once more and Marcel Deschamps, the fisherman, was hurled down. Then a helmeted soldier with a submachine gun stomped downstairs, followed by a corporal. The corporal went over to the teacher, sitting on the bench and rubbing the knee he had scraped during his tumble into the cellar.

  “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” he asked.

  “Ja. Ich kann Deutsch sprechen.”

  Then followed a torrent of guttural words, so fast that the teacher had trouble making them out. But he understood enough to put the sense of the remarks into French.

  “This village is surrounded,” he translated. “Every exit is guarded. Every house in town is being searched. But we have orders from Headquarters that if the murderer of the Hauptmann Seeler is not found—or none of you confesses to the murder—you will all be shot within one hour. These orders are from our Kommandateur at Caen.”

  The German corporal spun around and went up the stairs, followed at a respectful distance by the soldier. The door opened, then slammed shut. A key turned in the lock. Darkness and silence fell over the cellar.

  Their eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom. The farmer Marquet wept tears of despair. Monsieur Lavigne stalked in a rage up and down the dirt floor. The priest, hands extended, asked, “But who could have done such a thing? Surely it must have been somebody from outside the town.”

  “Yes, certainly, it must have been a stranger. Someone from Évreux, no doubt.”

  “They will find him soon, and we shall all be released, I am sure,” said the Père Clement.

  Only Monsieur Varin was thinking clearly enough at the moment to fit the pieces together. It took no genius to guess what had happened—and also what lay ahead. The Silesian shock troops sent in as a garrison, the cutting of bridges along the coast, the soldiers in battle dress—everything told him the invasion was imminent. Some young hothead must have felt this was a chance not to be missed, a chance to throw the garrison into confusion by killing its commanding officer and so to hurt the outfit at this critical instant in the war. To a rifleman firing through the blinds of a second-story window the Hauptmann Seeler was an easy target.

  Ah, thought the teacher, those crazy young people, acting as young people so often do, without thinking of others, with no regard for what might happen to those of us left here in the village. Naturally the Germans would avenge the death of the Hauptmann. Anyone could have foretold that.

  And what difference who the assassin was. If the slayer escapes, we six will be executed. He rose from the bench.

  “Come, my friends, the Feldwebel is now in command here. He has helped us before, but even if he has authority we mustn’t depend on him. He may know we are innocent, he will do all he can at Headquarters, but we must help ourselves. We must organize....”

  “Organize!” snorted Monsieur Lavigne. “How can we organize locked in this cellar, with fifty minutes of life left?”

  The teacher ignored his outburst. “Look, I have friends up the coast. Things have been happening, things that are the signal I anticipated. And see that fog coming in? What better weather for an invasion fleet to approach the coast? They plan these things, you know; they leave nothing to chance.”

  Suddenly René Le Gallec, who had been watching from the narrow window, shouted, “They’re coming! I hear them! Listen!”

  A rumble came from the sea. It grew louder, louder. Soon it turned into a massive roar. Together the men rushed to the window. There in the haze above the low
-lying fogbank were planes, planes, more planes than they had ever seen before, so many that they seemed to blacken the sky.

  The five men and the boy shouted, yelled, screamed, waved white handkerchiefs through the narrow, barred window, turned and embraced each other. Rescue! Deliverance! Release! Unquestionably those planes were headed straight for the Bloch villa. Already the antiaircraft batteries down the coast were sputtering, then the blockhouse just outside the town joined in. But the planes roared majestically on. Their sound was that of a thousand express trains, a thousand thunderstorms, drowning out the guns.

  The invasion at last! Long-awaited, long-hoped-for! They were saved!

  Now the planes were directly above, passing overhead, continuing on. None detached themselves to descend on Nogent-Plage. Whatever it meant, wherever they were going, it was no attack upon the garrison of the town. Soon the planes vanished from sight. The noise died away. The antiaircraft fire from the blockhouse stuttered and stopped. One by one, the men left the window. The Père Clement stood staring into space. The farmer sank back again on the bench. Young René Le Gallec crumpled to the floor as if hit by a blow.

  The hostages heard the voice of the Herr Oberst up above, giving a harsh, crisp command. It seemed somehow out of character. It had an ominous sound. Then came the stomping of boots. Evidently they were reinforcing the guard outside the front door of the Bloch villa.

  Below, in the cellar, five men and a boy faced death in forty-eight minutes.

  Chapter 11

  WHEN THE HAUPTMANN SEELER had come to Nogent-Plage in the spring that year, he, like everyone else, was immediately attracted to the Feldwebel von Kleinschrodt. Old army family. Nobility. Celebrated German athlete. The Hauptmann was impressed. But not for long. He soon had the young man sized up and perceived that he lacked real soldierly qualities. He then tried his best to reform him as other commanding officers in Nogent-Plage had done, to help him live up to the great traditions of his heritage.