The Caves of Périgord: A Novel

bullets tapping on their frontal armor they’ll hit us with howitzers and mortars. We’d be wiped out.”
    “So we let the bastards get away with it, haul our friends back to the Gestapo dungeons?”
    “François, we carry on doing our job, which is keeping as many Germans as we can tied up down here for as long as we can. And if we have to stage suicide attacks, it will be for a better target than a reprisal column on Terrasson.” He knew François well enough to understand that the only way to get him off this track was to focus his quick intelligence onto something else.
    “SS Das Reich, you mean.”
    “That’s what Plan Vert means to me. We blow the rails so the Das Reich can’t use them. But then we have to stop an entire armored division coming up from the south by road. That’s why we still need Marat and his boys. I don’t care if they are Communists or Martians. We’ll need every man and every gun in Périgord because we can only hope to slow the Das Reich down with cannon fodder. We can’t destroy the tanks, so we have to use every bridge and every village, every bend in the road to lay ambushes on their infantry and their trucks. If we can’t stop the tanks, we can shoot up their fuel trucks. It’s the only thing we can do. If you have a better idea, François, then for God’s sake tell me.”
    “Even with bazookas, it’s a suicide mission,” said François. “And we haven’t even got bazookas.”

    The parachute drops were becoming routine, and despite the reprisals the Maquis morale was sky-high after the success of the ambush. But Manners told himself not to get overconfident as he carefully approached the rendezvous point by the water tower at Cumont. He felt edgy, that visceral knot of warning that he had learned in the desert never to ignore. The moon was rising, and Berger was already waiting. François had the laundry truck waiting at a farm in the valley. It amused him to use petrol the Germans had allocated to get their uniforms picked up and cleaned.
    “I could only get one tractor. A couple of farm carts and trolleys,” said Berger. “It should be enough. The fires are ready. Here.” He passed to Manners the inevitable flask of brandy, although the nights were warm now.
    “We’re starting to lose some men, you know. They’re leaving the Armée Secrète and joining the FTP. The Communists are saying the Allies will never invade and the Red Army is doing all the fighting.”
    “We’ve lost nobody. We get more all the time.”
    “Not in our group, no. But in Périgueux and Brive and Bergerac, it’s all FTP. They even claim Soleil is one of theirs. Round here, it’s different. We have the reputation, after that attack on the Brehmer Division. But Marat has been claiming the credit for his own group, with you and the American. The way Marat tells it, we might not even have been there. Our lads know better, but all those new recruits coming into the Maquis, they want to join the FTP Commies and have a crack at the Boches.”
    “It’s all the same to me, Berger,” said Manners. “FTP or Armée Secrète or even Soleil’s lot. You know London’s policy. We don’t care who gets the recruits as long as they get results.”
    “You’ve seen this?” Berger handed him a small, single-sheet newspaper. “Marat has a printing press somewhere that’s turning this out. He calls it ‘ Audace ,’ and to read it you’d think only the Reds were doing any fighting. He says the Germans call this region ‘Little Russia.’ Can you get me a printing press by parachute?”
    Somewhere far off, an engine backfired in the night. Too far to worry about. And Berger was experienced. He’d have sentries on the approach roads. Manners checked his watch. Any time now. Moonlight and scudding clouds, the scent of fresh horse dung mixed with Berger’s cigarette. He was taking another swig of brandy when he heard footsteps coming, and a whispered “Laval.” It was young Daunier, with someone behind him.
    “Good evening, comrades.” It was Marat.
    “What in the devil’s name are you doing here?” said Berger grimly. “And you, Daunier, back to your post.”
    “Come for my share. We can’t leave my lads defenseless,” Marat said. “I’ve got enough to make two more battalions of franc-tireurs , but I need arms. Come, Capitaine , you’re a reasonable man. Tell this Gaullist we’re supposed to be allies.”
    “We are allies,” said Manners tiredly. “But how did you learn