he hoped he wouldn’t get caught in one of them. That had happened to him once at Cherry Point, and cutting all the chute lines to get loose had been like disentangling himself from a gigantic spider web. But now he overshot the woods, settling a little to the east in a small clearing.
For several seconds he waited, unmoving, his heart pounding, listening for the rapid approach of booted feet, the guttural shouts that would indicate his discovery. But there was nothing to greet him except the warm air of a late August night and the moonless, starlit sky.
Harris rose to his knees, unstrapping his parachute. Don’t think about the big picture, he instructed himself. One thing at a time. Follow procedure. Methodically he glanced at the sky for his bearings, checked his rations, dug a hole to bury his parachute. He desperately wanted a cigarette but couldn’t take a chance on the light being seen. Squatting on his haunches, he closed his eyes and visualized the map he had memorized. The river was to the west, a mile, maybe a mile and a half (he was still unable to think in terms of kilometers, though he knew he must soon learn to do so.) He had to find it, then follow it south, to a hut once used as a slaughterhouse in the middle of a small copse. It was at a place on the bank where the river turned back sharply toward the sea, and should be easy enough to spot. The contact was waiting there, described as a boy in his late teens with fair hair and a rudimentary knowledge of English.
Harris fished in his backpack for a moment to check his papers. They indicated that he was a manual laborer named Jean Leclerc on his way to Paris to look for work. He couldn’t pretend to any skill he wouldn’t actually have if tested, and couldn’t carry any printed material pertaining to his mission that might be confiscated. His French was now good enough to pass in brief conversation. He hoped. His cover was that of a traveling man partly to account for his, uh, unusual accent. He trusted that wherever he was the natives would believe he was from somewhere else.
He sighed deeply and stripped off his jumpsuit, tossing it into the hollow he’d created for his parachute. He changed into the rough peasant clothing he’d brought with him, and then filled in the cavity containing his discarded effects. He broke off some small branches from a nearby bush and dragged them over the earth he had disturbed, finally smoothing the dirt on top and patting it down with his hands. He walked back to the woods and tossed the branches away, returning to cast a parting glance around the clearing. Then, satisfied, he picked up his pack and began to walk.
* * *
In the darkness of the Bois d’or, Alain Duclos waited. His orders were to take the American to Pierre Langtot’s barn and hide him there.
The rest would come later.
Alain shifted his weight, scratched his head, and finally sat on the ground. He had no idea when the Yank would arrive, or if he had even made the jump into France. Many things could have gone wrong. But he would stay until dawn. If the American didn’t show by daylight he wasn’t coming at all.
Alain remained in the same spot for several hours and at length fell asleep. He was totally alone in the isolated spot, chosen for the rendezvous for that very reason, and the fatigue caused by his two jobs (days at the factory, nights with Curel) took its toll. But around four in the morning he started awake, instantly alert.
Footfalls were coming closer. If it were a German patrol, he would have a lot of explaining to do. But it sounded like one person and the Germans always traveled in pairs. His pulses racing, Alain stood, his hand on his new knife.
A figure emerged from the trees: tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a cloth cap, light jacket, loose trousers. Its face was in shadow.
“ Ou est le embranchement aller en Fains ?” it said, in barely accented French. “Can you show me the road to Fains?”
It was the
For several seconds he waited, unmoving, his heart pounding, listening for the rapid approach of booted feet, the guttural shouts that would indicate his discovery. But there was nothing to greet him except the warm air of a late August night and the moonless, starlit sky.
Harris rose to his knees, unstrapping his parachute. Don’t think about the big picture, he instructed himself. One thing at a time. Follow procedure. Methodically he glanced at the sky for his bearings, checked his rations, dug a hole to bury his parachute. He desperately wanted a cigarette but couldn’t take a chance on the light being seen. Squatting on his haunches, he closed his eyes and visualized the map he had memorized. The river was to the west, a mile, maybe a mile and a half (he was still unable to think in terms of kilometers, though he knew he must soon learn to do so.) He had to find it, then follow it south, to a hut once used as a slaughterhouse in the middle of a small copse. It was at a place on the bank where the river turned back sharply toward the sea, and should be easy enough to spot. The contact was waiting there, described as a boy in his late teens with fair hair and a rudimentary knowledge of English.
Harris fished in his backpack for a moment to check his papers. They indicated that he was a manual laborer named Jean Leclerc on his way to Paris to look for work. He couldn’t pretend to any skill he wouldn’t actually have if tested, and couldn’t carry any printed material pertaining to his mission that might be confiscated. His French was now good enough to pass in brief conversation. He hoped. His cover was that of a traveling man partly to account for his, uh, unusual accent. He trusted that wherever he was the natives would believe he was from somewhere else.
He sighed deeply and stripped off his jumpsuit, tossing it into the hollow he’d created for his parachute. He changed into the rough peasant clothing he’d brought with him, and then filled in the cavity containing his discarded effects. He broke off some small branches from a nearby bush and dragged them over the earth he had disturbed, finally smoothing the dirt on top and patting it down with his hands. He walked back to the woods and tossed the branches away, returning to cast a parting glance around the clearing. Then, satisfied, he picked up his pack and began to walk.
* * *
In the darkness of the Bois d’or, Alain Duclos waited. His orders were to take the American to Pierre Langtot’s barn and hide him there.
The rest would come later.
Alain shifted his weight, scratched his head, and finally sat on the ground. He had no idea when the Yank would arrive, or if he had even made the jump into France. Many things could have gone wrong. But he would stay until dawn. If the American didn’t show by daylight he wasn’t coming at all.
Alain remained in the same spot for several hours and at length fell asleep. He was totally alone in the isolated spot, chosen for the rendezvous for that very reason, and the fatigue caused by his two jobs (days at the factory, nights with Curel) took its toll. But around four in the morning he started awake, instantly alert.
Footfalls were coming closer. If it were a German patrol, he would have a lot of explaining to do. But it sounded like one person and the Germans always traveled in pairs. His pulses racing, Alain stood, his hand on his new knife.
A figure emerged from the trees: tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a cloth cap, light jacket, loose trousers. Its face was in shadow.
“ Ou est le embranchement aller en Fains ?” it said, in barely accented French. “Can you show me the road to Fains?”
It was the
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