The Fiesler Storches (German spotter planes) haven’t found us….yet.
We’re well-armed – British Sten guns, Spanish .38 Llama automatics – and I’d love to fire off a couple of bursts at one of those damned Storches, hit the radiator in its belly, and bring it down. But if the pilot radioed our location, we’d have the German air force bombing the hell out of these woods in fifteen minutes. Of course we never know for sure when we’ve been spotted by one of these recon planes and our position reported. So we stay alert as deer, knowing that every stop can lead to a German ambush.
The Maquis hide by day and strike at night. Through the French Underground, the Maquis are wired in to most of the towns and villages in the south of France. Their people in the marshalling yards and train depots keep them fully informed on the latest movements of troops or munitions. But it is tricky. because every village has its informers or double-agents. And from time to time, assassinations are carried out against these people, supporters of the pro-Nazi, Vichy French government.
I wonder whether there are any double-agents in our group. Running around in the French woods in civilian clothes is not exactly safe duty for a downed American flier. If I were caught, I’d probably share the same fate as any of these Maquis – turned over to the Gestapo for torture-questioning, then shot.
Traveling around with the Maquis, the Geneva Convention on the treatment of prisoners of war would not apply to me. But I need these guys if I’m to get out across the Pyrenees.
I’m not included in any of their nighttime operaions. They are a close-knit bunch and I’m definitely an outsider. Most of the time I don’t even know what they are up to. I’m left behind with an old man who’s the cook and a few others guarding the camp.
My first day for example, I led a tethered cow, which a couple of the guys had “borrowed” from a farm, while we hiked to a new camp. Later I helped in the butchering, which somehow amused the Maquis. I do my best to contribute what I can. I don’t want to be expendable.
The snow seems to have no intention of melting and letting me climb the Pyrenees to escape into Spain.
c. GCYI