Flying Angels(56)

   The young man led the way to a shed behind the barn as the visitors threaded their way through the livestock in the front yard. All of them were on the alert for any unexpected, suspicious movements, but there were none as they walked into the dark, dusty shed, cluttered with rusting farm equipment. The young Frenchman was quick to push away the dirt on the floor, and a trapdoor appeared. The two corpsmen silently helped him, and all of them disappeared below it. The men put the trapdoor back in place over their heads, then descended a staircase down a narrow tunnel, and they found themselves in a well-lit room filled with men. There was another room beyond it. The air was stale and heavy with cigarette smoke and sweat. A generator was keeping the room lit, and there were air vents above them, concealed by bushes on the farm. It was a serious operation, and looked astonishingly efficient. It had been a command post of the Resistance for the southern region for most of the war, and the Germans had never found it, although they had tried.

There were a dozen men in the room, and two women, and one of the women explained in better than adequate English that the most injured men were in the room beyond, and one of them had been unconscious since that morning. They had to be in good enough condition to move on by the next day. Six of the men in the main room and one of the two women were identified as the victims of the explosion. The nurses examined them immediately and found them all to be suffering from severe burns under their clothing—burns that hadn’t been cleaned or tended to, for lack of anything to dress them with. None of them complained as the two nurses and one corpsman treated them. One of the men had lost a finger, which was an ugly wound.

   Louise headed quickly into the back room with the other corpsman. There was a man lying unconscious on an old mattress, and a teenage boy lying on a blanket with a nasty abdominal wound. He had been close to the explosion. His wound was infected and he had a raging fever. Louise understood immediately that they were at the heart of the Resistance and the unconscious man on the mattress was their leader. She wondered if he would even survive long enough to worry about the Germans capturing him. But whatever happened, the Nazis would surely kill the others.

She knelt beside the unconscious man and opened the bag she had brought with her. The corpsman was dealing with the boy, who moaned when his wound was dressed, and then the corpsman left the room to join the others. The boy looked a little better by then.

Louise opened the leader’s clothes and saw that there was shrapnel embedded in his chest and arms. While he slept, she removed it with the instruments she’d brought, taking advantage of the fact that he was unconscious. She cleaned the wounds and dressed them, and put antibiotic powder in the wounds. She gave him two injections to help fight the infection, and she started an IV of antibiotics. She examined the rest of his body, and found a bullet wound in his calf, which she dressed as well. The soles of his shoes were bare, and his clothes were tattered from the explosion. He had minor burns as well. Carefully, she cleaned him up, bandaged what she could, and sat silently beside him and waited for him to wake up. One of the men from the Resistance came in to check on him several times and was satisfied with what Louise was doing. She seemed like a very competent nurse and had wasted no time treating him.

   “What’s his name?” she whispered to the Frenchman who watched her.

He hesitated before he answered. “He answers to ‘Tristan.’?” She didn’t challenge him, but she wanted something more.

“It’s important,” she said.

And after hesitating again, he whispered, “Gonzague.”

She nodded, and began speaking to her patient softly, as though he could hear her. The young Frenchman left and she was alone with her patient. She bathed his brow with cool water. He had a heavy brown beard, and she gently stroked his face and one undamaged arm, and then rubbed his hands to increase the circulation. An hour later, he moaned, and slowly opened his eyes.

“You’re safe, Gonzague. You’re going to be all right,” she said in French. He tried to move the leg where he’d been shot, and he moaned again. The bullet had been dug out by someone else before she got there. They’d done a rough job.

“Who are you?” he said in a voice that was more of a groan. His voice was hoarse.

“We came to help you. You’re at Gaston’s farm,” she said, using the code name for the location. “Uncle George sent us,” she added, which meant they’d been sent by the British. He tried to get up and found he couldn’t. Every part of him felt heavy and his wounds like they were on fire. “Try not to move. We’ll get you up later. You’ll be leaving tomorrow, you need to get your strength back tonight.” He nodded and went back to sleep for a while. She gave him another shot for pain, and he woke up two hours later. She offered him a sip of water, and he looked at her and frowned.

   “They sent you?” She nodded. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.” She smiled at him. “I’m a nurse.”

“It’s dangerous for you to be here, and to help me.” She nodded. He had spoken to her in English that time.

“I know. You needed help, badly. Your friends want you to live, and to get you out.” He shrugged as though it didn’t matter and was part of his job. He had been injured many times before, jailed by the Germans, and escaped. He had been underground for two years, moving around France.