produced. Taken from a dead German .at the Tejo River.
‘Then why come down here? If there’s a problem, your line of vision was
best where you were. It’s more direct.’
‘If there’s a problem, they’ll know that. They’ll flank to their left.
East. To the west the ravine heads away from the mark. Maybe it’s nothing.
Perhaps you were right; they just want us to know they’re coming.’
A little more than two hundred yards away, just west of the shallow
passage, two men came into view. The Spaniard who knelt on Spaulding’s left
touched the American’s shoulder.
‘It’s Bergeron and Chivier,’ he said quietly.
Spaulding held up his hand for silence and scanned the area with the
binoculars. Abruptly he fixed them in one position. With his left hand he
directed the attention of his subordinates to the spot.
Below them, perhaps fifty yards, four soldiers in Wehrmacht uniforms were
struggling with the foliage, approaching the waters of the ravine.
Spaulding moved his binoculars back to the two Frenchmen, now crossing the
water. He held the glasses steady against the rock until he could see in
the woods behind the two men what he knew was there.
A fifth German, an officer, was half concealed in the tangled mass of weeds
and low branches. He held a rifle on the two Frenchmen crossing the ravine.
Spaulding passed the binoculars quickly to the first Spaniard. He
whispered. ‘Behind Chivier.’
The man looked, then gave the glasses to his countryman.
Each knew what had to be done; even the methods were clear. It was merely
a question of timing, precision. From a scabbard
58
behind his right hip, Spaulding withdrew a short carbine bayonet, shortened
further by grinding. His two associates did the same. Each peered over the
rock at the Wehrmacht men below.
The four Germans, faced with waters waist high and a current – though not
excessively strong, nevertheless considerable -strapped their rifles across
their shoulders laterally and separated in a downstream column. The lead
man started across, testing the depths as he did so.
Spaulding and the two Spaniards came from behind the rock swiftly and slid
down the incline, concealed by the foliage, their sounds muffled by the
rushing water. In less than half a minute they were within thirty feet of
the Wehrmacht men, hidden by fallen tree limbs and overgrowth. David
entered the water, hugging the embankment. He was relieved to see that the
fourth man – now only fifteen feet in front of him – was having the most
difficulty keeping his balance on the slippery rocks. The other three,
spaced about ten yards apart, were concentrating on the Frenchmen upstream.
Concentrating intently.
The Nazi saw him; the fear, the bewilderment was in the German’s eyes. The
split second he took to assimilate the shock was the time David needed.
Covered by the sounds of the water, Spaulding leaped on the man, his knife
penetrating the Wehrmacht throat, the head pushed violently under the
surface, the blood mingling with the rushing stream.
There was no time, no second to waste. David released the lifeless form and
saw that the two Spaniards were parallel with him on the embankment. The
first man, crouched and hidden, gestured toward the lead soldier; the
second nodded his head toward the next man. And David knew that the third
Wehrmacht soldier was his.
It took no more than the time necessary for Bergeron and Chivier to reach
the south bank. The three soldiers were dispatched, their blood-soaked
bodies floating downstream, careening off rocks, filling the waters with
streaks of magenta.
Spaulding signaled the Spaniards to cross the water to the north
embankment. The first man pulled himself up beside David, his right hand
bloodied from a deep cut across his palm.
‘Are you all right?”whispered Spaulding.
‘The blade slipped. I lost my knife.’ The man swore.
‘Get out of the area,’ said David. ‘Get the wound dressed at the Valdero
farm.’
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‘I can put on a tight bandage. I’ll be fine.’
The second Spaniard joined them. He winced at the sight of his countryman’s
hand, an action SpauldiVg thought inconsistent for a guerrilla who had just
minutes ago plunged a blade into the neck of a man, slicing most of his
head off.
‘That looks bad,’ he said.
‘You can’t function,’added Spaulding, ‘and we don’t have time to argue.’
‘I can. . .
‘You can’t.’ David spoke peremptorily. ‘Go back to Valdero’s. I’ll see you
in a week or two. Get going and stay out of sightV
‘Very well.’ The Spaniard was upset but it was apparent that he would not,
could not, disobey the American’s commands. He started to crawl into the
woods to the east.
Spaulding called quietly, just above the rush of the water. ‘Thank you.
Fine work today.’
The Spaniard grinned and raced into the forest, holding his wrist.
Just as swiftly, David touched the arm of the second man, beckoning him to
follow. They sidestepped their way along the bank upstream. Spaulding
stopped by a fallen tree whose trunk dipped down into the ravine waters. He
turned and crouched, ordering the Spaniard to do the same. He spoke words
quietly.
‘I want him alive. I want to question him.’
‘I’ll get him.’
6No, I will. I just don’t want you to fire. There could be a backup
patrol.’ Spaulding realized as he whispered that the man couldn’t help but
smile. He knew why: his Spanish had the soft lilt of Castilian, a
foreigner9s Castilian at that. It was out of place in Basque country.
As he was out of place, really.
‘As you wish, good friend,’ said the man. ‘Shall I cross farther back and
reach Bergeron? He’s probably sick to his stomach by now.’
‘No, not yet. Wait’ll we’re secure over here. He and the old man will just
keep walking.’ David raised his head over the fallen tree trunk and
estimated distances. The German officer was about sixty yards away, hidden
in the woods. ‘I’ll head in there, get behind him. I’ll see if I can spot
any signs of another patrol. If I do, 1911 come back and we’ll get out. If
not, I’ll try to grab him….
60
If anything goes wrong, if he hears me, he’ll probably head for the water.
Take him.’
The Spaniard nodded. Spaulding checked the tautness of his rifle strap,
giving it a last-second hitch. He gave his subordinate a tentative smile
and saw that the man’s hands – huge, calloused -were spread on the ground
like claws. If the Wehrmacht officer headed this way, he’d never get by
those hands, thought David.
He crept swiftly, silently into the woods, his arms and feet working like
a primitive hunter’s, warding off branches, sidestepping rocks and tangled
foliage.
In less than three minutes he had gone thirty yards behind the German on
the Nazi’s left flank. He stood immobile and withdrew his binoculars. He
scanned the forest and the trail. There were no other patrols. He doubled
back cautiously, blending every movement of his body with his surroundings.
When he was within ten feet of the German, who was kneeling on the ground,
David silently unlatched his holster and withdrew his pistol. He spoke
sharply, though not impolitely, in German.
‘Stay where you are or I’ll blow your head off.’
The Nazi whipped around and awkwardly fumbled for his weapon. Spaulding
took several rapid steps and kicked it out of his hands. The man started to
rise, and David brought his heavy leather boot up into the side of the
German’s head. The officer’s visor hat fell to the ground; blood poured out
of the man’s temple, spreading throughout the hairline, streaking down
across his face. He was unconscious.
Spaulding reached down and tore at the Nazi’s tunic. Strapped across the
Oberleutnant’s chest was a traveling pouch. David pulled the steel zipper
laterally over the waterproofed canvas and found what he was sure he would
find.
The photographs of the hidden Luftwaffe installations north of
Mont-de-Marsan. Along with the photographs were amateurish drawings that
were, in essence, basic blueprints. At least, schematics. Taken from
Bergeron, who had then led the German into the trap.
If he could make sense out of them – along with the photographs – he would
alert London that sabotage units could inflict the necessary destruction,
immobilizing the Luftwaffe complex. He would send in the units himself.
The Allied air strategists were manic when it came to bombing runs. The
planes dove from the skies, reducing to rubble and
61
crater everything that was – and was not – a target, taking as much innocent
life as enemy. If Spaulding could prevent air strikes north of
Mont-de-Marsan, it might somehow… abstractly make up for the decision he
now had to face.
There were no prisoners of war in the Galician hills, no internment centers
in the Basque country.
The Wehrmacht lieutenant, who was so ineffectual in his role of the hunter