The Caves of Périgord: A Novel

Schmeisser into Manner’s neck.
    “Spokoyno,” Marat growled. The Schmeisser was lowered.
    “You want to come to Tulle?” asked Marat, amused. Manners put his hand on the gear lever to stop it moving, and urgently made his case. Tulle might stop the armored column heading its way. There was nothing to slow the one coming through Brive. Except Marat the ruthless and his Spanish haters.
    “The English gentleman wants me to hang some German prisoners at the side of the road and slice their balls off for their friends to find them?” said Marat levelly. “It sounds as if you have learned something about war, here in France.”
    “I leave the details to you. The only way to slow the Germans now is to get them so furious they start burning and killing here.”
    “So in the absence of English guns, we have to slow them with French blood.”
    Manners said nothing. He had nothing more to say. He began to climb out of the car and look for François. Then he heard a car door slam behind him as Marat emerged, and saw the Communist’s spectacles glint as he walked to the back of the truck where his men sat, armed to the teeth.
    “I want some German prisoners and some rope,” he rapped. “And a blunt knife. From now on, we’re fighting this war Spanish style.”

    There was a truck parked at la Ferrassie when the fast black Citroën that François had commandeered drew to a halt on the road from le Bugue. In the headlamps, it was empty and deserted.
    “Ours?” inquired François, as Lespinasse cocked his Sten gun. Manners shook his head as he saw “Madrid” scrawled on the tailgate. “Marat’s Spaniards.”
    The three of them toiled up the hill to the cave, guided by the sound of work and curses, and found Marat and McPhee standing by the uprooted tree while one man labored to widen the hole and more were at work inside.
    “How thoughtful of you to bring an electric torch,” said Marat amiably. “Our hurricane lamp ran out of paraffin.” He raised his voice. “Igor? Gdye ty?”
    “Vot ya, tovarishch,” came the reply from the Russian behind them. He must have been watching them from the moment their car drew up and followed them up the hill. Manners recalled the Schmeisser.
    A head emerged from behind the uprooted tree. It was Florien, one of the lads who had helped them put the bazookas into the cave. He must have guided Marat here. Manners sighed inwardly at the complications of French politics.
    “We have come to take the bazookas to Terrasson,” said Manners. “It’s a joint action of the Armée Secrète and your FTP comrades to try and hold the road to Périgueux. We might as well go together.”
    “I regret that my orders do not mention Terrasson,” said Marat. “I am not throwing away my men’s lives on foolish gestures against tanks.”
    “And no doubt your orders tell you to keep the bazookas as souvenirs,” mocked François. “They’ll come in useful after the war.”
    “Hey, calm down,” said McPhee. “We’re taking them to Périgueux, to blast our way into the Gestapo building in the Credit Lyonnais, and some others to hit the Hôtel Normandie at Bergerac. It’s my idea, the only artillery we’ve got to take out their HQs. The battle of the Das Reich division is over, you guys. We lost it. They roll on. We stay, and take out the garrisons they leave behind.”
    “That is not what the joint command has agreed,” said François calmly. “Those orders bind you as well as me, McPhee.”
    “Orders have to change when the situation changes. That’s what we’re trained for. To use our initiative,” said McPhee.
    “This is getting us nowhere,” said Manners equably. “Let’s be sensible-about this. You say you need a bazooka to hit German headquarters. Fine. Take two, and half the rockets. And let us have the other two for Terrasson.”
    A long pause.
    “Sounds good to me,” said McPhee.
    Malrand shrugged. Marat nodded and waved his Russian across to join them. Igor shouldered his Schmeisser and headed down into the cave.
    “And you won’t believe what’s in there,” said McPhee, turning to follow him. “Not guns, I’m talking about. It’s an art gallery down there.”
    François fired his Sten, two short bursts, one that toppled the Russian into the pit and the other that cut down Marat. Lespinasse, not needing an order, fired a long burst into the jumble behind the tree roots, and stunned with shock, Manners saw the American crumple. Then François tossed a