The Caves of Périgord (34 page)

“What about the work he’s doing now for France?” asked Manners.

“Oh, that is to be expected. He’s a patriotic French aristocrat, with interests to protect. This summer, with the invasion, you’ll see the entire gentry of France join the Resistance and claim to have been in the underground all along. By the time your Montgomery gets his tanks to Paris, you will find an entire nation of forty million brave resisters,
with a few token scapegoats like Pétain and Laval to be put on trial as collaborators. They will be France’s alibi, as we all conveniently forget that in 1940, we had forty million collaborators who were happy to settle for Pétain and a quiet life. My own party went along for a while, because of that damned Nazi-Soviet pact. I’m French enough to admire de Gaulle for standing up in 1940. And Malrand. He picked his side early, I’ll give Malrand that. But to fight for France is in his blood, in his character. Fighting for Spain was not. That’s what makes him an interesting man, and possibly a dangerous one.”

“He’s dangerous to Germans, that’s for certain. You should have seen him with the Spandau.” The maids stood at their shoulders to serve the trout. Automatically, Manners turned his shoulder to make way for the woman, and noticed that Marat did not. He just continued smoking his pipe, staring quizzically at the Englishman, forcing the maid to wait.

“Some of the boys tell me Malrand’s a good teacher and a good leader. Almost as good as you, they say.”

“He’s better than me,” said Manners. “He gets that automatic respect that’s the mark of a natural officer.”

“That’s a question of his class, and there’ll be no more of that kind of respect when this war’s over. We’ll respect men like you and McPhee, professionals who know what they’re doing, and know it is their duty to pass it on to others.”

“There won’t be much room for people like me after the war. Anyway, I don’t think I’ll survive it. I’m a professional soldier, Even if I survive this mission, and whatever I have to do in Germany, after Hitler’s finished they’ll send me to Burma to fight the Japanese.”

“They’ll probably ask you take Indochina back for France.”

“I do what I’m told, Marat.”

“So do I, Englishman, but in a different army, for a different cause.” He put down his pipe, sipped his wine, and devoured his fish in four great bites. He washed the last mouthful down with wine, and lit his pipe again.

“By the way, I’m enjoying the book you lent me,” said Manners. “Thank you.”

“I have another history you might want to read after the Michelet, as soon as McPhee has finished it. He’s reading it closely, on those few occasions when Mercedes has finished with him. Or him with her. My boys all like our Red Indian, but she likes him most of all.” Marat laughed dismissively. “And don’t let the name of the author put you off the book. It was written by Karl Marx, but it’s about French history, how our Revolutions turn into dictatorships.”

“Sometimes I wonder whether Stalin didn’t do the same thing to the Soviet revolution,” said Manners, grinning at the thought of McPhee and the fierce little Spanish girl. But he was struck by Marat’s criticism of the Nazi-Soviet pact, wondering just how unorthodox a Communist he might be.

“Three or four years ago, I might have agreed with you. The war has changed that. The entire Soviet people are involved now. This is their war, and the place will never be the same. Stalin has understood that. He’s a realist.”

“Stalin?” shouted Soleil in his ear. “The Englishman wants to make a toast to Stalin.” He rapped on the table with his gun again. Manners raised his glass with a grin. “Stalin, and the great Russian war effort,” he said.

“That’s enough drink for you,” Soleil said, shoving the priceless crystal-glass roughly down on the table. “When we finish this meal, you’re giving your lesson. On the Sten gun.”

“What, here at the table? It’s already gone midnight.”

“So what. Don’t you know there’s a war on?” laughed Soleil. “We might as well enjoy it. Here. I was only teasing you. Have some more wine. But you are going to give the lesson. I promised the boys.”

So it proved. His tongue thick with wine, and swaying just a little on his feet, Manners found himself pushed to his feet at the end of the meal. Soleil’s own Sten was thrust into his hand, and the pistol butt hammered for silence. He might as well do this right.

“The Sten gun,” he began. “Named after its inventors. Shepherd and Turpin, of the Royal Small Arms Factory at Enfield. It may not be the best submachine gun ever made, but it’s the cheapest and the easiest to make and maintain and so it is the most useful for the kind of fighting you have to do. We have made over four million of them so far in this war. It’s the most popular submachine gun in the world. Just over seven hundred fifty millimeters long, weighs under three kilograms, made of cheap and easy metal stampings. So easy that the Danish Resistance have been making their own copies in underground workshops.

“It holds thirty two nine-millimeter rounds, and fires them at a rate of five hundred fifty rounds a minute. Work it out. You have about four seconds of constant firing. Never fire that long. Short bursts. Rat-a-tat-tat is the sound you want to hear. Any more than that and the muzzle starts to climb to the left. And you can’t carry that much ammunition.

“It will kill at two hundred meters, even more. But you’ll never hit anything at that range except by accident. The sights are fixed at one hundred meters, and you can’t change them. A hundred meters is maximum effective range. Five meters is best. The closer the better. But remember, if you don’t hit your German, you’ll scare the shit out of him. Nobody, I mean nobody, remains standing when a submachine gun is being fired. They jump for cover because there’s a lot of lead flying in a very short space of time.

“If you want to make them keep their heads down even longer, here’s a useful trick. Take a wet cloth or towel, and wrap it round the Sten’s barrel. Pull the trigger, and it sounds just like a heavy machine gun. Only don’t keep firing too long or it overheats. But for the first shots of an ambush, or if you want to discourage a pursuit, I recommend the wet towel trick.

“The worst problem is that the Sten can jam, so only load thirty rounds. Never the full thirty-two. If it jams, clear the bolt, like this.” He tugged it back, the hard metallic sound cruelly efficient in the rapt silence in the great room. “If it still jams, hit the butt on the floor and then clear the bolt twice. If it still jams, throw it at the Germans. And you then have my permission to run.” He got the expected laugh.

“Now, throw me another Sten and a big handkerchief.” Malrand, grinning because he knew what Manners was about to do, took one of the big damask napkins from the table, and came around to tie it into a blindfold across Manners’s eyes.

“The most useful thing about the Sten is its ease of maintenance. It likes being greased and oiled and taken care of, but it will forgive you if you’re too busy fighting.” He laid the two Sten guns side by side, thumping them clumsily onto the table because of the blindfold. “Right, who has a watch with a secondhand?” Somebody shouted out that he did. “Tell me when to start, and then time me,” he said.

“
Trois—deux—allez-y,
” came the cry. And despite the blindfold, Manners’s hands moved almost too fast to see. One Sten, slip the magazine, release the bolt, withdraw, flick the sear, and release the spring. Lay them down, one by one. The next Sten, the same procedure. “Finished,” he shouted.

“Nine seconds,” came an awed voice.

“Right. Soleil, mix up the parts from the two guns so I don’t know which part comes from which gun.” He heard the clatter, smelled the garlic mixed with Soleil’s cologne.

“Good. Now time me again.” And still blindfolded, he reassembled the two guns. The spring, the sear, the bolt, the magazine. Safety on. Do it again. Lovely old Sten. Doesn’t matter which part comes from which gun, they all fit together just fine. “Finished.”

“Twelve seconds.”

He whipped off the blindfold. “Now, Soleil, which gun is yours and which is mine? You can’t tell. But take one of those two apart and put it
back together. We’re not timing now. But Soleil will show you how easy it is. Who’s the youngest here?”

A dozen voices cried that Little Pierrot was the one, just sixteen. He came up and easily put the second gun back together.

“Who’s the oldest?” called Manners, stripping it down again. The elderly lawyer-type who had been speaking to Malrand rose hesitantly. “I have never handled a gun, monsieur, not in my life.”

“All the better—you’ll show them how easy it is.” Most of these men would be accustomed to firearms from childhood, shotguns and rook rifles, military service. The lawyer handled the parts gingerly, had trouble with the spring, but finally handed the reassembled Sten to Manners with a proud glint in his eyes. “Well done, monsieur.”

“Right, how many rounds do you load in the magazine?”

“Thirty,” they all shouted.

“What’s your best range?”

“Five meters.”

“What do you do if it jams?”

“Release the bolt. Bang it on the floor.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Throw it at the Germans.” They all roared, laughing now, delighted with themselves and the gun and with him.

“Enough. We’ll shoot some in the morning.” He turned, clapped Soleil on the back, and headed off to sleep in the barn, the sounds of continued revelry building behind him. He had barely got to the hall when Marat caught him.

“That was a very impressive performance,” he said. “It had to be.”

“Why?” Manners asked bluntly. He was tired and drunk and did not want any more verbal jousting that night.

“It’s what I came here tonight to tell you. Brehmer’s infantry battalions are due to arrive at Limoges tomorrow night. Three battalions of Russian renegades, Vlasov’s men. And one battalion of Georgians, who
have been transferred from fighting Tito in Yugoslavia. They are hard and terrible men who know they are lost if Hitler is defeated.”

“What do you mean, Vlasov’s men?”

“He used to be a general in the Red Army, a good one. But when he was captured in one of the big encirclements, he turned his coat and joined the Nazis, and went round the POW camps recruiting more. Most of them probably joined up for the promise of a square meal. They claim to be fighting for a non-Communist Russia, but they’re renegades now. Doomed men. Traitors.”

“Limoges tomorrow night,” mused Manners. “Then they have to move them to Périgueux and Bergerac, get them into barracks, food and sleep. That’s another day. Refit them, issue ammo, re-caliber their guns at the range, and a couple of lectures on tactics, communications, rules of engagement. Russian troops will need German liaison officers, and then some French speakers. The staff work for that will take some sorting out. Another day, and then at least one day familiarization with the country. Right, thanks, Marat. We have four days, minimum. Maybe five. Are they using road transport or local trains to move them to Périgueux?”

“Three local trains have been assigned. They are to be available from dawn, two days from now. But the armored train that escorted them here will stay for that. It’s too risky to ambush an armored train.”

“If we are to try anything at all, we have to hit them before they’re ready. Malrand has more ammo for the Spandau. We’re well off for supplies.” He was thinking aloud. Take the plastic out of the Gammon bombs, and he could probably take out one pillar of a viaduct. No—the armored cars would watch the viaducts and the obvious bridges and cuttings. These men have fought partisans. Maybe this was too big a target. The priority was to have the Maquis trained and ready for the invasion, not to lose their strength and morale fighting superior firepower too soon.

“Perhaps we should duck this one and disperse, start up again elsewhere,” Manners said.

“They’ll torture peasants till they find the arms dumps, round up the parents of the boys who have run to the Maquis. If we leave now without a fight, the people will never trust us again,” said Marat. “I thought you might radio for an air raid on the rail station.”

“Bomber Command doesn’t do that kind of favor. And anyway a night raid would flatten half of Limoges, kill too many civilians. Remember the way the American bombers hit Bergerac when they were trying to get the airfield. No, we’d do better to hit them early, and then disperse. Can your railway men get me to Périgueux and up that track to Limoges tomorrow? And can you get a message to McPhee and his boys to stand by?”

“We can use one of the trolleys if we have to, claim a signal repair. I can reach McPhee.”

“Right, wake me in good time. And send Malrand to me in the barn. We have to talk about this.”

“Malrand will be busy,” he said with a wry grin. “Mercedes came here with me.”

“I thought he hated Communists.”

“She’s a woman, that’s different. And she’s a Spaniard. They love him, Englishman.”

“I thought you said she was with McPhee?”

“She is, when he’s around. But tonight he isn’t, and Mercedes has been at war since Franco launched his coup eight years ago. She lives for the day, and she likes men.”

“I suppose it’s that free love idea that you Communists believe in,” said Manners, suddenly worried by the implications for the mission of a woman coming between McPhee and François.