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Authors: Leslie Thomas

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Ormerod's Landing (51 page)

BOOK: Ormerod's Landing
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The domed Frenchman looked at him with incredible disgust. 'Today who I shoot is no concern for me,' he said. 'As long as I kill the Nazi. Nobody else matters.'

The interlude had enabled the British officer to get to his knees. Ormerod using one arm helped him to get back into his bed. 'Stay there,' he pleaded. 'For God's sake, stay there.'

The Englishman looked at him with a sort of dull hatred, but he did as he was instructed. From across the ward Bailey said to Ormerod: 'How did you manage to get mixed up with these bastards?'

'Our Government sent me,' said Ormerod succinctly. 'The same Government that sent you.'

'Voila,'
said the man who had been assembling the gun. He had taken no notice of what had happened behind him. Jean Le Blanc turned eagerly. Marie-Thérèse was still facing into the room, looking at the hostile men in pyjamas grouped around the walls. She had not looked at Ormerod at all. Henri was still watching the door. Now everything was still. An autumnal fly buzzed insidiously against the window but that was all.

With two or three flicks of his eyes Le Blanc saw that the gun was right; securely on its tripod and with the telescopic sight correctly aligned. He crouched and looked along its bare barrel. Even as he did so two German staff cars pulled up alongside the lake below. A fissure of a smile opened on his face. 'He is come,' he muttered. 'The man is here.'

Below them, six storeys below, General Wolfgang Groemann, having lunched at the officers' mess, stepped from his

175

car onto the sunny grass. Einder was fussing again. Where was the boat? Where were the wounded soldiers? Where were the photographers?

He need not have worried. The News and Propaganda Department knew how to assemble its props and parts. As the general descended from the car a smart white rowing boat appeared, nudging its way around to the small bay where the cars had stopped. Two German soldiers, one with each of his arms in a sling, the other with a theatrical-looking bandage across his head and eye, were sitting on one of the cross-boards. Another soldier pulled back the oars.

'We shall not need the crew,' asserted Groemann as the boat came to the bank. I shall really do the rowing. I will not have it said that I only row for photographs.'

Annoyance flushed Einder's face. Any lowering of what he felt ought to be the general's prestige he looked upon as a lowering of his own. 'Are you sure, sir?' he said anxiously.

'Oh, for God's sake Einder, don't be such a washerwoman. Of course I'm sure. I've rowed a boat before, you know.' He looked out to the level, shiny waters of the lake.

Einder shrugged and grunted something to the sergeant holding the painter of the boat. The sergeant gave an order to the man at the oars and he left the boat smartly. The photographers took some pictures of the group on the shore, and then the general by himself. He was smiling after the photographs and began to take off his tunic. Einder's eyes were raised in shock. 'Sir!' he protested. 'Surely ...'

'Yes, surely,' Groemann affirmed stiffly. I cannot row a boat done up like a turkey.'

'But it will not look
correct'
protested Einder. 'Your
medals.
Your medals will not show.' He leaned closer to his superior. 'And, forgive me, my general, perhaps your lunch will.'

He knew he had scored his point. Groemann was more than conscious of his increasing stomach. No, Einder was right, it would not have been proper. He nodded his acknowledgement. 'All right, so I
am
a turkey.' He climbed into the boat, ignoring the helping hand offered by the sergeant, sat down and smiled at the wounded soldiers.

176

The two men facing him sat as white as their bandages. He grinned at them. 'After this you get a medal,' he joked. 'You must be very brave to volunteer for such hazards. Maybe you have to swim.'

They smiled uncertainly. Not being able to salute or click their heels or come to attention they had no notion of how to confront the general. He eased their apprehension by shouting to Einder: 'Where are those photographers then? Come on, we want to be sailing.'

Obediently a larger boat propelled by an outboard motor came throatily around the grassy head of the park. Aboard were half a dozen men with cameras and a newsreel cameraman. 'We are to be film stars,' said Groemann encouragingly to his stiffly sitting passengers. 'Always I have wanted to be a film star.'

Awkwardly he began to row away from the bank. He could not remember at first which oar guided the boat which way and Einder watched apprehensively and with a certain measure of disdain. He did not think that a man of Groemann's rank should be so obviously enjoying himself with such pursuits and in such company. If it were necessary for propaganda, then do it; but to enjoy it was undignified.

Forty feet from the bank and the general finally remembered how to steer the little craft. The oars made pleasing patterns on the polished water. The general smiled and the wounded soldiers smiled diffidently back. At that moment the boat cleared a hanging willow which had been obscuring it to the window of the hospital ward.
'Tres bien,'
whispered Jean Le Blanc who was crouched behind the sniper's rifle. The words were to himself.
'Tres bien, tres bien.''

If he had intended to squeeze the trigger then, he had to change his mind, because the little craft on the lake swung erratically as the general rowed and Le Blanc was abruptly afforded only a view of the soldiers' backs as they sat in the passenger seat. Then the target cleared again, only to be once again obscured by the cutting across of the photographers' boat. He cursed through his teeth.

The photographers, with their traditional scant regard for authority, were shouting across the water to the general to

177

manoeuvre the rowing boat to one side so that they could get their first shots. He did so good-humouredly. This brought the larger boat directly in front of Le Blanc's target. From the elevation he might have fired over the first boat and the photographers' heads with a good percentage chance of hitting his man. But he wanted it to be without error. He breathed shallowly and waited. By now Ormerod was watching the scene with horror and fascination. The window sash had been lifted over the barrel of the rifle and the afternoon breeze came in sweetly. Marie-Thérèse still faced the patients with her gun in her small hand, but now the British and French men just sat dumbfounded around the ward waiting for the shooting to happen. The fly buzzed impatiently against the imprisoning window. Ormerod moved to squash it against the glass. Marie-Thérèse snapped : 'Be still.'

It was like a slow, locked dream. From the door of the ward Henri emitted a click of the tongue. Someone was coming up the stairs. He raised the nub of his pistol. In through the doors came a white-coated doctor, a Frenchman. His eyes glazed as they came down on the hole of Henri's pistol. Speaking quietly Henri told him to sit down on the nearest bed. He sat down, his trembling hands trying to find the iron bedfoot to steady himself.

At that moment it became right. On the lake the photographers swung their boat for a picture at a different angle. It brought Groemann facing the rifle, with his two passengers slightly to one side and clear of the field of fire. Jean Le Blanc recognized a right moment when he saw it. His sight was on the centre of the general's chest, just to the side of his double bank of medals. He checked his breath. He pressed the first pressure of the trigger and then, almost at once, the second. The single sharp explosion burst around the lake and its buildings, sending birds screaming from the trees. General Wolfgang Groemann, a sudden blood-red flower spraying outwards on his tunic, remained upright for several seconds, then his body seemed to leap on some spring and fall backwards into the bottom of the little boat he had been rowing. 'Take a photograph of that,' muttered Le Blanc. The boat trembled and crazily turned. It was five seconds before the shouts went

178

up. The wounded soldiers, like two comedians, tried to stand up and tipped the boat first one way then the other. The one with the bandaged arms fell over the side and was drowned, although nobody noticed at the time.

'Depart,' said Jean Le Blanc in the ward. They knew what to do. There was no time to dismantle the rifle. It remained
where it was like a piece of modern sculpture, cold and im
personal. The resistance group began to back away towards the door. Ormerod looked for the last time at young Bailey.
The young officer was sitting speechless on the side of the bed,
tears running surrealistically from his one eye. Ormerod felt an overwhelming need to apologize to him.

'Bastards!' called the other officer across the ward. 'Bastards !'

The French doctor who had intruded suddenly stood up and ran screaming towards Le Blanc, who shot him without compunction. His pistol exploded and the man's white coat
was ripped apart by the shot. He fell down, bloody and gro
tesquely spread out in the middle of the ward. They went out. Standing in the open door of a lift on the landing was the French doctor who had first taken Ormerod into the
ward. He seemed mesmerized with fear. Le Blanc pushed him
aside as they got into the lift. Before the doors closed Henri fired two shots towards the ward door to discourage pursuit.

The grating closed and they descended six floors. Only the
heavy sound of their breathing filled the cage. To Ormerod it seemed as though they went down in slow motion.

Le Blanc and Henri ran out into the sunshine, ready to
shoot. But the road at the side of the building was vacant. An
ambulance stood against the kerb, its engine vibrating. The French doctor ran like a rabbit to climb into the cab and the rest of the group hurried into the back and closed the doors.

The vehicle started with a jolt that all but toppled them
from their feet. Ormerod felt sick. Marie-Thérèse put her hand
on his wrist and he felt her vibrating. He did not look at her.

The ambulance took the upward sweep of the road which
sent it over the modest hill below which were parked the staff
cars which had brought the general and the others to the lakeside. Everyone was at the water's edge, the photographers'

179

boat frantically towing the rowing boat towards the shore. In the general's boat the wounded soldier was bending over the dead Groemann, weeping from fright and shock. His comrade's body had gone below the smooth surface. Men were running from buildings all around. As the ambulance turned up the incline and away from the scene. Einder was running up the slope shouting: 'Ambulance! Ambulance!'

Four miles out of Bagnoles de l'Orne, going east on a minor road below trees, towards Sees and the Forest of Ecouves, the ambulance was stopped by the first of the road blocks which the Germans were frantically throwing across all roads leading from the spa town. As the route bordered the small lake, the Etang de Vie, a three-man Wehrmacht motorcycle team appeared by the side of the road. They had only just arrived and Jean Le Blanc, looking through the small window into the driver's cabin of the ambulance, cursed as he saw them ahead. Another two minutes and they would have been there first. Now it all depended whether the Germans knew they had escaped in an ambulance. He watched two of the three Germans come forward towards the vehicle and he knew by their attitude that they were not aware that an ambulance had been used in the escape. Had they known, he had no doubt they would have fired on it first. Now they walked forward unsuspectingly and spoke to the driver. The third man remained by the motorcycle and sidecar in the centre of the quiet road. They had not had time to erect any barrier. The lemon sun was filtering through the bordering branches and birds sang undisturbed in the cool air.

I am going to Sees to pick up a patient,' said the driver to the first soldier. 'What is the trouble?'

'Nobody tells us anything,' grumbled the soldier. 'We have to check all vehicles, that's all. But it's something big by the sound of it. Who's in the back?'

'Just the orderly.'

The soldier was about to turn away and wave the ambulance through when the man who had remained with the motorcycle shouted: 'Go and check the back.' He must have

180

been in charge because the two soldiers shrugged and turned back towards the vehicle. The face of the driver tightened.

'They are coming to look,' Jean Le Blanc whispered to the others. He nodded to Henri and the other man who had taken
the rifle to Bagnoles. They moved quietly so that they were
standing inside the rear doors, their guns pointing directly towards the back. Jean Le Blanc moved in just behind them, a sub-machine gun carried like a baby across his stomach. Ormerod and Marie-Thérèse crouched in the furthest interior of the vehicle. The Germans began to undo the door.

It rattled and creaked and then both doors swung open
wide. Ormerod had never seen such expressions appear on the
faces of any men. One was in the middle of a sentence when he looked up and saw the guns. Henri and the other Frenchman fired at once and both soldiers fell down heavily out of sight. Immediately Jean Le Blanc, with the agility of a gorilla, jumped to the ground and, swinging around the flank of the ambulance, fired one burst from the sub-machine gun at the third German by the motorcycle sidecar. The man had not had time to react to the killing of his comrades before he was flung over by the bullets. The petrol tank of the motor cycle caught fire and blew up with a hot, small explosion. Nodding to the ambulance driver Le Blanc ran around to the back of the vehicle and treading on one of the dead Germans as if the body were a step, he climbed back in and closed the door. The vehicle was already moving forward.

'After today,' muttered Ormerod almost to himself, 'the Red Cross is not going to seem quite the same.'

The Forest of Ecouves covers sixty square miles of hills in the triangle between Bagnoles de l'Orne, Alencon and the cathedral town of Sees, in Lower Normandy. It is the highest land in north-western France and its pinewoods, its deep cleft valleys of oak and beech, are thick and remote, the home of roebuck and deer. The main road from Sees to Alencon cuts along the eastern flank of the forest and there is a secondary route that goes through the area, but the rest is traversed by primitive tracks, many only known to woodmen and hunters. It is a good place to hide.

BOOK: Ormerod's Landing
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