blank.
“You must have heard of us,” the soldier continued, still grinning. “We tell fairy stories. I’m Jacob, and my brother there is Wilhelm.”
Gilbert turned to the second German. “He’s … he’s joking isn’t he? Pulling my leg?”
The second soldier was stony-faced. “No, he’s always deadly serious.”
“And we’re here to do serious work, so we’d best get on with it,” the first soldier said, his smile vanishing. He looked at the grass strip. “The Ju-52 needs about two hundred metres for landing and take-off, so this is good. And there’s enough room for the plane to turn into the wind.” He turned back towards the narrow road that ran between the tiny villages of Espezel and Bélesta. The lorry was parked there, a hundred metres or so from where they stood. “That’s my only concern. We’re just a little too visible to anyone who might be passing.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Gilbert told him. “The road is almost never used at night; it’s hardly used during the day.”
The German nodded, apparently convinced. “And you have the landing torches prepared?”
“Exactly as you ordered. They just need putting into place and lighting. But we’ll do that when…”
He stopped and all three men looked at the road again.
A blue, open-backed van, belching smoke from its exhaust, was moving quickly towards them from the direction of Bélesta.
“Hardly used, eh?” the soldier said, his eyes fixed on the van.
The vehicle appeared to be passing by without stopping, but just as it reached the lorry, the driver jammed on the brakes and the van bumped to a skidding standstill on the grass at the edge of the road.
The two soldiers exchanged a look and waited. The driver’s door opened and the sound of creaking hinges drifted across the plateau.
A man stepped out and stared in their direction. He waved, and they heard him shout. “Eddie, is that you?”
“Shit!” Gilbert breathed. “It’s my cousin.”
“Get rid of him,” the German in charge hissed.
But it was too late. The man was already walking towards them, limping as he strode across the grass. “Or is that Gilbert?” he yelled. “You two should wear signs to give us a chance.”
“I’ll have to talk to him,” Gilbert said quietly to the soldiers.
“I said get rid of him!”
“I can’t just tell him to clear off. Look, he’s harmless. Thinks he’s a bit of a big shot, likes to brag, but it’s all talk. He’s no trouble, really.” He waved at the approaching man. “It’s me, Alain: Gilbert. And what’s wrong, why are you limping?”
The young man waited to speak until he reached the other three, extending his hand to his cousin. “Gilbert, how are you? What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I’m just…” Gilbert glanced at the two wary Germans and decided that the safest option was to change the subject. “Why the limp, Alain? What happened to your leg?”
The newcomer spat on the ground. “It was that bastard, Victor Forêt.”
The two soldier’s eyes met again briefly, but they remained silent as the newcomer continued.
“I had an argument with him in the bar. He grabbed me when I wasn’t ready for him. Pushed me, and I tripped; fell onto one of those tables on the terrace. It’s just a bruise, that’s all. I wasn’t ready for him.”
Gilbert smiled, trying to keep the conversation away from the men he was with. “And what did you fight over?”
“It didn’t get as far as a fight, lucky for him. Just because he got his nose broken playing rugby years ago he thinks he’s a tough guy.”
“Whereas you really are a tough guy, eh, Alain?” Gilbert said with a laugh that was a bit too forced. “And, anyway, Victor always knows best about rugby.”
The newcomer was smaller and slighter than the twins, but had the same dark, curly hair and square jaw. “We didn’t argue about rugby,” he said, scowling.
“What, then?”
“Victor was going on about how
“You must have heard of us,” the soldier continued, still grinning. “We tell fairy stories. I’m Jacob, and my brother there is Wilhelm.”
Gilbert turned to the second German. “He’s … he’s joking isn’t he? Pulling my leg?”
The second soldier was stony-faced. “No, he’s always deadly serious.”
“And we’re here to do serious work, so we’d best get on with it,” the first soldier said, his smile vanishing. He looked at the grass strip. “The Ju-52 needs about two hundred metres for landing and take-off, so this is good. And there’s enough room for the plane to turn into the wind.” He turned back towards the narrow road that ran between the tiny villages of Espezel and Bélesta. The lorry was parked there, a hundred metres or so from where they stood. “That’s my only concern. We’re just a little too visible to anyone who might be passing.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Gilbert told him. “The road is almost never used at night; it’s hardly used during the day.”
The German nodded, apparently convinced. “And you have the landing torches prepared?”
“Exactly as you ordered. They just need putting into place and lighting. But we’ll do that when…”
He stopped and all three men looked at the road again.
A blue, open-backed van, belching smoke from its exhaust, was moving quickly towards them from the direction of Bélesta.
“Hardly used, eh?” the soldier said, his eyes fixed on the van.
The vehicle appeared to be passing by without stopping, but just as it reached the lorry, the driver jammed on the brakes and the van bumped to a skidding standstill on the grass at the edge of the road.
The two soldiers exchanged a look and waited. The driver’s door opened and the sound of creaking hinges drifted across the plateau.
A man stepped out and stared in their direction. He waved, and they heard him shout. “Eddie, is that you?”
“Shit!” Gilbert breathed. “It’s my cousin.”
“Get rid of him,” the German in charge hissed.
But it was too late. The man was already walking towards them, limping as he strode across the grass. “Or is that Gilbert?” he yelled. “You two should wear signs to give us a chance.”
“I’ll have to talk to him,” Gilbert said quietly to the soldiers.
“I said get rid of him!”
“I can’t just tell him to clear off. Look, he’s harmless. Thinks he’s a bit of a big shot, likes to brag, but it’s all talk. He’s no trouble, really.” He waved at the approaching man. “It’s me, Alain: Gilbert. And what’s wrong, why are you limping?”
The young man waited to speak until he reached the other three, extending his hand to his cousin. “Gilbert, how are you? What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I’m just…” Gilbert glanced at the two wary Germans and decided that the safest option was to change the subject. “Why the limp, Alain? What happened to your leg?”
The newcomer spat on the ground. “It was that bastard, Victor Forêt.”
The two soldier’s eyes met again briefly, but they remained silent as the newcomer continued.
“I had an argument with him in the bar. He grabbed me when I wasn’t ready for him. Pushed me, and I tripped; fell onto one of those tables on the terrace. It’s just a bruise, that’s all. I wasn’t ready for him.”
Gilbert smiled, trying to keep the conversation away from the men he was with. “And what did you fight over?”
“It didn’t get as far as a fight, lucky for him. Just because he got his nose broken playing rugby years ago he thinks he’s a tough guy.”
“Whereas you really are a tough guy, eh, Alain?” Gilbert said with a laugh that was a bit too forced. “And, anyway, Victor always knows best about rugby.”
The newcomer was smaller and slighter than the twins, but had the same dark, curly hair and square jaw. “We didn’t argue about rugby,” he said, scowling.
“What, then?”
“Victor was going on about how
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