China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3) by Madalyn Morgan (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

‘Go!’ Pierre handed Claire her rucksack and his own. ‘See you at the safe house.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’

‘No, I’ll stay here with Marcel.’ He took a hand grenade from his pocket. ‘The dynamite was damp. It may need a little help to detonate.’

‘I’ll stay too. Two hand grenades are--’

‘No you won’t,’ André said. ‘It’s too dangerous. Besides, you’re carrying the dynamite for the pylons.’ Claire hugged Pierre and Marcel. ‘Be careful,’ she said to Marcel. He nodded and kissed her on both cheeks. Having almost lost him to the river, Claire felt protective towards him and wanted to stay. But André was right. With a rucksack full of dynamite it was too dangerous. Pierre gave André the two remaining rucksacks. ‘The train will only be a mile away now, probably less. We must go!’

‘One more thing,’ Claire said, looking from Pierre to Marcel. ‘When you have detonated, you leave straight away. Whatever happens, you must both get out immediately, right?’

‘That’s an order!’ André added. The four comrades shook hands, wished each other luck, and went their separate ways – Pierre into the meadow grass, Marcel to the south entrance of the tunnel, and André and Claire across the fields.

Claire and André heard the explosion as they entered a wood on the outskirts of a small hamlet. Claire stopped and turned. Tears filled her eyes. ‘All those men!’

André dropped Marcel’s bag and put his arms around her. ‘Killing is never right, Claire, but the German army must be stopped. If that train got as far as the front line--’ A second explosion was followed by a loud rumbling.

‘The bridge,’ Claire said. Together they watched as thick black smoke billowed into the sky. Like dense storm clouds, it blocked out the sun. Gripped by a feeling of dread, Claire shuddered. ‘Shall we wait for them?’

‘No, we’ll see them at the safe house.’ André hauled Marcel’s rucksack onto his shoulder and started to run thought the wood. Claire followed.

Claire washed in cold water from pipes that banged as the water – rusty at first – ran slowly through them. She changed into a spare set of clothes. They were damp, felt cold against her skin, but they were better than the sodden bundle that lay on the scullery floor. Hearing voices, and eager to see Pierre and Marcel safe after their dangerous mission, Claire ran from the wash-house to the kitchen. Opening the door, she saw Pierre sitting at the table with his head in his hands, sobbing. Instinctively she looked round the room. Marcel was not there. She looked at André standing at Pierre’s side. His face was ashen.

Closing the door behind her, Claire crossed the room and dropped into the chair next to Pierre. André pulled out the chair on the other side of their comrade and sat down. With tears falling from his eyes, the big Frenchman lifted his head and looked first at André, then at Claire. ‘The second bomb,’ he said. ‘We knew the dynamite was damp.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘I told him not to go back, that the fire from the first bomb would impact on the second, but he ran into the tunnel. I followed him, but the train was almost on us. I shouted to him to get out, that I needed to detonate. He shouted okay and scrambled up the embankment after me. The train entered the tunnel and I looked behind. Marcel raised his arm, brought it down again, and shouted, “Now!” I knew the train would soon be through the tunnel if I did not do it immediately, so I fell on the detonator.’ Pierre put his head in his hands and sobbed again. ‘Marcel must have slipped, fallen down the embankment,’ he said, lifting his head. ‘I ran to where I had last seen him. He lay on his back, his eyes open and staring. When the second bomb exploded the blast lifted him high in the air, dropping him onto the track like a rag doll. I wanted to go to him, but the tunnel collapsed. Bricks and fire and smoke spewed everywhere, burying Marcel. There was nothing I could do, so I ran.’

In their shared grief the three comrades sat in silence. Just before dark Émilie, a middle-aged woman with sad eyes and a lined face, wearing the traditional black headscarf and dress of a widow, brought a potato and onion broth, bread, and a very welcome bottle of wine. She left them to eat saying she would be back for the dishes in the morning. None of them felt like eating, but they knew they must. Later, in an attempt to take Pierre’s mind off the death of his brother, Claire uncorked the bottle of wine and André took the map from his bag. They discussed briefly how they would sabotage the communication pylons to the north, but made no firm plans. They agreed they would have to wait several days, maybe longer, until the Germans had investigated the train crash and left the area.

Claire looked at Pierre, at his grief-stricken face, his red and swollen eyes. ‘Why don’t you go home to Yvette and your children? Go tomorrow, before the Germans start knocking on doors. And,’ she hated saying the words that she knew were necessary, ‘when you tell Marcel’s wife that her husband is dead, be sure to tell her he died a hero.’ Claire wondered how little that would matter to a woman who had lost the man she loved, or to children who would never see their father again. She thought about Aimée and wondered if she would one day have to tell her that her father had died a hero. She shook the thought from her mind.

That night the three comrades slept in the attic. Sleeping in their clothes on top of old rugs beneath what smelt like even older, but thick, blankets, they were warm