Resistance Read Online Free PDF Page A

about you. Understand?”
    The resistance wouldn’t try to halt the German advance, Atkins explained. That was the job of the army and the Home Guard (George thought of his uncle and his grandfather doing drills in the school yard last week, their uniforms sagging at the knees, broom handles over their shoulders). No, the resistance would retreat to underground bunkers that were, as they spoke, already being constructed by the army. Once the Germans had passed, they’d attack them from behind, sabotaging supply lines, planting roadside bombs, ambushing isolated military posts. The units would not give up, he assured George. “They’ll be well supplied and they’ll be well trained. They’ll give Jerry a bloody hard time, believe me they will.” The reprisals would be severe. Hostages executed. Whole villages wiped out in revenge. The resistance, Atkins told him, would not survive. And neither would he. If the invasion was successful, in the end they would all die. “Fourteen days, that’s what you can expect. Around fourteen days of activity from the date of the invasion.” He looked at George from under his tweed cap, the multicoloured feathers of the fishing flies quivering in the breeze. “Still up for it?”
    George averted his eyes from Atkins’s gaze and looked down at his feet for a moment before looking back up at him. “Yes, sir,” he said, frowning.
    Atkins leant forward. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ you know? Mr. Atkins is fine.” Then, giving George a tap on the shoulder like a judge striking his gavel to signal court out of session, he stood up and put on his jacket. Reaching into an inside pocket, he drew out a sheaf of papers.
    “These are for you. This is rice paper. It’s edible. Only ever writeyour observations on this. If you think you’re going to get caught, eat them.” He tore off a corner and handed it to George. “Try a bit, not as bad as all that. Bit like the gum the Yanks chew.”
    George bit off a piece of the paper and chewed on it as Atkins unfolded another sheet. It was illustrated with hand-drawn symbols: rectangles and triangles patterned with shaded crosses and chevrons. “These,” he said, “are the insignia of every German unit from the Hook of Holland to Cap Gris Nez. I want you to learn them all by heart. I’ll test you on them when we meet next week, so make sure you do learn them, George. You might need them even sooner than that.” He handed the sheet to him. “That’s all for now,” he said, then turned away and began walking back across the field towards the lane. “I’ll see you next week,” he called over his shoulder.
    “Sir?”
    Atkins turned back, one eyebrow cocked.
    “Sorry. Mr. Atkins.”
    “Yes, George?”
    “How will I know where to meet you?”
    Atkins gave another of his sudden smiles. “Better start checking those drop points, hadn’t you, George?” Then he turned away again and kept walking towards the gate, the smile shedding from his face immediately. He hated this. Too much like fattening lambs for slaughter. This boy, he looked so young. With his dusting of a moustache, his sunburnt ears, his fair hair cut under a bowl by his mother. What chance did he stand? But then what chance did any of them stand once the beachheads were breached? Just 167 anti-tank guns in the whole of the country, museums being ransacked for three-hundred-year-old canons. He glanced back at George as he climbed over the gate into the lane. He was already back at work, the bracken bowing before the swing of his scythe like Japanese courtiers before their emperor. Atkins knew he had to do this. What else could they do? But that didn’t mean he had to like it. He mounted his bicycle and cycled on down the lane, the rhythmical swish of George’s scythe rising and falling as he passed him on the other side of the hedge. It was he, Atkins thought, him, “TommyAtkins,” with his secrets and promises, not George, who should be holding that