1

February 1943

The rain had begun just at the start of the procession and
stayed—cold, steady, unremitting.
Nicole Boyer put one foot in front of the other. The rain
soaked her shoulders, plastered her long brown hair to her
head and ran down her round cheeks. The black dress stuck
to her skin.
She shivered in the cold and followed the other mourners.
Her eyes were closed to hold back the tears, the anger.
Hatred should not be visible here. She stumbled into the
black figure in front of her. Eyes opened, she made a
promise to Guy Grenier, the man she had loved, the one for
whom her heart ached. They would not get away with this.
She would find revenge.
The horse’s hooves splattered mud, his black coat shining
wet in the cold rain as he pulled the funeral wagon up the hill
toward the cemetery. A small group followed the black-
robed priest and the wagon.
The priest, Father Matthieu, led Madame Grenier and the
other family members to the man’s final resting place, where
the caisson had stopped. The only umbrella sheltered
Madame Grenier. The rain had not given warning. A church
bell pealed in the distance and rolled across the valley.
 Eight men, appearing tired and weary, gathered around
the wagon, pulled the coffin off, and carried the wooden box
through an aisle of headstones.
Nicole looked at the names and dates on the stones.
Young men from another war. She watched the eight men set
the coffin next to the grave dug that morning. They nodded
to Madame Grenier as a sign of respect. The stately gray-
haired woman came forward to lay a rose on the coffin of her
son.
Nicole pushed through the others to the front. She
watched as Guy’s mother said a brief silent prayer before
moving back with the others. The casket with the young man
was lowered into the pit. The mounds of earth on either side
began to melt into the trench.
Father Matthieu droned in his usual monotone. Words
about redemption and salvation and forgiveness. She
wondered why there were no words about courage or
commitment or duty. No words about love.
Father Matthieu performed the duties of a priest but
everyone knew that he collaborated with the Germans. This
traitor could not understand the meaning of faith in God and
country and freedom. He could not grasp the meaning of
devotion and loyalty to homeland and family.
The Catholic flock in St. Petit Jean were careful in what
they confessed when he sat across the confessional screen.
His final words over Guy Grenier drove a knife into Nicole’s
heart. Yet she knew that the Father would say these same
words over other young men to be killed by the Germans
when the village brought them here to rest.
Guy’s two brothers picked up shovels and began to cover
the coffin with the wet dirt. Nicole trembled with layers of
anger, disbelief, and a deep, deep hurt. The rain ran down her
cheeks. As the other mourners started back down the hill, no
one spoke to her. She wondered who they blamed for his
death.

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 2
One Year Later

In the forest Nicole Boyer crouched on one knee in the half-

light dawn. Another chance to kill the Boches.. She and her
companions waited for the train that carried German troops
and weapons. Her face, smooth as honey, was blackened
with soot, like all the others in this team of ragtag fighters.
She was twenty one—older than many of the Maquis around
her—and had dressed herself in worn men’s trousers, cut off
and tightened with a rope belt.
Nicole knelt on one knee next to Henri Villiard, their
leader. His craggy face, always tense and serious, was
camouflaged with the black powder. A black beret sat on his
thick black hair He glanced at his watch. A railway station
master had fed him the information about the approaching
train.
Nicole ran her tongue over her lower lip. Henri
represented to her daring and bravery and her chance to
avenge Guy’s death.
She scanned the Maquis, the French resistance fighters, a
small band spread out through the woods around her.
One lay on his stomach in front of her, behind a Bren
light machine gun. The rest lay or knelt behind trees with
their guns ready. A few had Sten sub-machine guns, supplied
by the Allies in an earlier parachute drop, but many had their
3
ancient family hunting rifles. Some had no weapon at all.
They hoped to get a gun from a dead Boche.
A crow cawed in the distance. No other sounds. The quiet
and the damp earth smell of the thick beech forest gave the
scene a false calm.
Henri looked at his watch again.
“The train is late.”
The waiting and inaction made Nicole more and more
nervous. She picked up a stick from the leaves, toyed with it
and then broke it in two and threw it on the ground,
disturbing a black bug. She ground the bug into the dirt with
her heel. “Damn Boches. Damn beetles.”
‘Beetles,’ was a derogatory name for the Germans used
by the French. Beetles. A perfect name for this enemy. They
come, eat all the potatoes, and leave nothing. But at last she
had the chance to kill Germans. Revenge for Guy.
The blond man she had first seen this morning, rose from
beside the man at the Bren machine gun and started toward
her. He had a Colt .45 pistol in his hand. He took long strides
with catlike bearing. He was tall with broad shoulders.
He knelt beside her.
“You seem nervous. Your first time?” He spoke French
with a Parisian accent.
She looked at his blue eyes, his face hidden by the black
rubbed on his sharp cheekbones. He pinched his chin
between thumb and finger, accentuating the cleft.
She said nothing but answered his question with a toss of
her head. Not wanting to admit that it was her first chance to
shoot the Boches. She wanted to show confidence,
experience and even maturity despite her twenty-one years
of age.
In an earlier meeting, Henri had treated this blond fellow,
code named ‘Falcon’ as an equal. She noticed that they
shared ideas and details for this attack on the German train.
Nicole wondered where he came from and what role he had.
His French sounded perfect but his blond hair and blue eyes
looked German.
Henri answered. “Oui, Falcon, it’s her first time.”
4
 She turned away from him to look at Henri and bit her
lower lip.
Henri lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke. One of
the nearby fighters glared at him. He glared back but
extinguished the unfinished cigarette into the soft dirt, and
put the stub in his pocket. Henri himself decreed the rule of
no smoking on a mission. Still he had the habit of lighting a
cigarette under tension. Henri looked at Falcon and shrugged
his shoulders. Falcon had a slight smile.
Nicole sensed that Falcon was displeased with her. The
rope belt around her waist accentuated her hips and breasts.
She knew that he could see that she was an attractive girl—
an attractive woman.
She pulled the German pistol from the rope belt around
her waist: A Walther P-38. Falcon looked at her with raised
eyebrows. She ran her fingers over it and took off the safety.
“Hmm. Attention.—Careful.” He eyed the pistol. “Henri
should not have agreed to let you risk your life here. This is
not for women. This is work for men. He has told me how
valuable you are and how much we depend on your
information. Don’t plan on coming on any more attacks. We
don’t want to watch after you.”
He thinks I am helpless.
“Who says you can make rules? Is it because I am a
woman?”
“Maybe. You just shouldn’t.”
Henri turned toward them and put his finger on his lips.
Then they heard the sound of a train. Nicole gripped her
pistol tighter, and checked once again that the safety was off.
Falcon shook his head. “Take care. You could shoot
yourself.”
He turned toward the direction of the low rumble of the
approaching train.
She looked at him and shook her head. Shoot myself. You
don’t know anything.
Henri had a battery between his knees and held the ends
of wires that led off in the direction of the railroad tracks
fifty meters away, his rifle slung over his shoulder.
5
 Nicole’s pulse quickened and every muscle became tense
while she waited. Her knuckles turned white around the
pistol.
The train plowed through the dense morning fog on its
path and sliced between the winding river and the hills in the
forests of Normandy. Nicole could see through the cover of
the undergrowth that the locomotive pulled four troop cars
ahead of flatcars that carried wheeled guns with long barrels.
There would be many soldiers with the artillery.
She could see two soldiers in the cab with the French
engineer and fireman watching the tracks ahead. One of the
soldiers had his head out of the cab of the engine. He pointed
and screamed “Halt. Halt.” He must have seen the lump of
leaves at the tracks that hid the explosives. The engineer
threw on the brakes, but too late. The wheels of the engine
locked and skidded over the explosives with a long high
pitched screech. Henri touched the two wires to the battery.
The explosion blew apart the tracks on one side, derailed
the engine and threw it over on its side. The momentum
carried it down the embankment toward the river and pulled
the trailing cars with it. The engine boiler exploded,
throwing steel into the air in a cloud of steam and smoke.
The troop cars and flatcars with artillery followed the engine
down to pile up in a twisted mass of steel.
“We can use less plastique next time,” Henri said.
Soldiers tumbled into the roar of steam and grinding steel.
The jumbled mess grew all along the length of the train.
Finally she only heard escaping steam.
Some German soldiers lay motionless, others screamed
for help. The uninjured found their rifles and headed toward
the woods, like angry bees from a hive hit with a stick. They
spread out as they ran toward the cover of the trees. The
noise of rifle fire and the machine gun now poured down
from the Maquis. Henri’s men shot at all movement below.
Soldiers fell, wounded and dying.
But scattered German soldiers began climbing toward
their enemy’s shooting. One of them charged through the
trees and brush. He didn’t see Nicole. He came straight at
6
Falcon, who crouched behind a large tree. The German
stopped and aimed at Falcon.
Nicole held her pistol in both hands and shot twice. Both
shots missed, but the soldier aimed at Nicole. She shot twice
again. One hit the soldier in the stomach before he could
shoot. He dropped his rifle and fell to his knees at her feet.
His hands clutched his bleeding stomach, his eyes looking up
at her in pain. His mouth moved but no words came out.
Falcon looked around to realize Nicole had saved him
from getting shot.
She held the pistol in front of the German’s face and shot
again. The pistol slammed into her hands. He fell back, his
forehead with a crimson hole, two eyes staring up at the
trees. She looked at the dead German.
He was only a boy. About twenty, her age. She recalled
The Ten Commandments, Thou shalt not kill. Familiar to her
from the Catholic sisters. But no guilt now. Maybe her years
of questioning the Catholic teachings now protected her from
guilt. She had decided that she held the tools of revenge in
her hands. God did not.
Falcon shook his head at Nicole as the soldier lay in front
of her. She saw his look of surprise and relief. The sight of a
bloody, dead enemy at her feet gave her even more
satisfaction.
Henri blew his whistle twice. The signal for retreat. She
hesitated long enough to spot another Boche in the forest and
got off another shot. Following her group, she ran as fast as
she had ever run toward the top of the hill. The Maquis with
the machine gun stumbled up the hill behind her. Falcon
followed, checking to make sure he was the last of the group.
Germans appeared from one side. He moved from tree to
tree, shooting at the three of them.
Falcon yelled “A terre.—Down.”
Nicole and the machine gunner dropped to the ground.
Falcon stopped behind a tree, waited until the soldier ran to
within range of his pistol. Falcon shot, hitting his target. As
the wounded German staggered, he lifted his rifle to return
fire, but he fell from two shots, one from Falcon and one
7
from Nicole, aimed as she lay on the ground. Nicole and the
machine gunner started again toward the top of the hill with
Falcon right behind her. The trees ended when the farmlands
began. Each crop separated from the other by dense borders
of trees, elderberry, and blackberry bushes.
Falcon looked to his left to see four Germans in the
distance, emerging from the trees. Now they could see the
Boches coming at them from the right and left. The Maquis
with the machine gun ran on, low behind a row of bushes.
The soldiers came after him, shooting.
Falcon turned left instead of following their escape route.
He stopped and pushed Nicole into a hole in the elderberry
growth. They crawled, covered on all sides by the elderberry
and blackberry bushes until the ground sank into a small
depression.
Falcon nudged Nicole into the depression and held her
with his hand on her back. They were hidden by the
denseness of the bushes overhead. She warmed to his hand
on her shoulder. Lay still. Do not let breath escape. The shots
grew closer.
Guttural shouts in the distance. They heard one soldier
shout, “Ja. I got one with a machine gun. He’s dead.”
“The others went this way,” shouted another.
The boots pounded, getting closer, then passed them by.
No sound, only the crows in the distance. They waited,
motionless, in their hiding place.
Nicole’s mind returned to the day over a year ago. She
was twenty, Guy Grenier three years older. They were in
love and planned to be married. She would go to Paris, to the
university, while Guy completed his studies in hotel
management. He would in later years take over the hotel his
parents owned. But on that February day, the Germans
changed her life.

8
 3
German Cruelty

Nicole recalled how the family greeted her with long faces
to tell her the sad story.
Guy Grenier agreed to run the restaurant that morning in
place of his younger brother who had fallen ill. If it hadn’t
been for the stomach virus, the tragic event of that day might
not have happened.
Guy stood at attention dressed in black trousers, a white
shirt with a black bow tie, his hands behind his back. He was
three years older than Nicole, his light brown hair trimmed
short against his head. He had his mother’s visage with the
same Roman nose between his dark brown eyes set wide
apart. Always with a smile and anxious to please. The
perfect demeanor to operate a small hotel.
He greeted the two older ladies as they came into the
breakfast room of his family’s hotel with a slight bow and
led them to a table next to the picture windows with a view
of the street.
“Is this satisfactory?”
He pulled out one of the chairs.
“Ah, oui, Guy. This is perfect. With a view of the new
snow.”
Mme. Marceau smiled. She and her sister had come from
Paris to visit her son, Raymond, the hotel’s wine supplier.
9
 Wine was rationed like almost everything else by this
time. A hotel and restaurant could not operate without a
dependable source of wine. The Hotel Grenier was grateful
to Raymond Marceau and gave special treatment to the
mother and aunt of their wine supplier, even though the
Germans claimed top priority in French hotels.
Ten tables with white tablecloths filled the small breakfast
room. A tiny vase sat in the center of each table with a fresh
red carnation. White napkins in a pyramid rose at each
setting. The smell of real coffee just made and freshly baked
bread filled the room. The tinkle of dishes drifted from the
kitchen.
“May I bring coffee for you ladies?”
“And a roll with marmalade, s’il vous plaît. Raymond
tells me there might be a wedding here soon, and
champagne,” she smiled.
“Oui, mesdames, if my sweet Nicole will agree. Times are
hard but they will be better if we are together.”
“You are right, Guy.” The second lady looked up at Guy’s
brown eyes and strong face. “Isn’t the new snow beautiful.
Like love, it cleans up the world and hides all the ugliness.”
Guy came closer and lowered his voice. “Mais oui,
madame. If only we could cover the brutality and cruelty of
the Boches. And then we could all have real coffee instead of
ersatz.” He straightened up. “May I bring anything else for
you?”
“Some rolls and butter for me as well, merci.”
The two nodded in agreement. They looked out of the
corners of their eyes at the table across the room, to two
German soldiers.
The two German soldiers, the driver and the adjutant for
Colonel ‘von Schiesekopf’—von Shithead—were the other
guests in the breakfast room. The hotel staff had given the
nickname to the colonel.
Guy served the two ladies their coffee and rolls. He
walked to a closet, took out a broom and began to sweep the
floor.

10
 The German driver raised his hand, his chin lifted toward
Guy. Guy stood his broom against the wall and walked to
their table, a smile plastered on his face.
The German looked at Guy with a dour expression. “More
coffee, garçon.”
Guy nodded. With his back to them, he dropped his smile
and brought the coffee pot to pour more into their cups.
The morning sun brightened the room through windows
facing the street. The light snow that had fallen in the night
covered everything with a layer of white. The crispness of
the cold morning scene contrasted with the cozy warmth of
the breakfast room.
One of the ladies leaned over to wag her finger at the
other to punctuate a comment. The other laughed and shook
her head. They didn’t look at the Germans across the room
or acknowledge their presence and continued an animated
conversation.
Colonel ‘von Scheisekopf’ strode into the room. He was a
big man, not overweight, and held his shoulders back with
military bearing.
He took a place at one of the tables, grunted and motioned
with a hand with two fingers in the air at Guy. His right hand
had only his first and second fingers left from an artillery
shell explosion in The Great War, 1917. Spittle ran from his
mouth next to the scar. He had lost feeling around his mouth.
Movement in the street attracted their attention. Guy
stopped sweeping. Everyone in the breakfast room looked to
see the colonel’s staff car roll down the street in front of the
hotel. With no driver.
The German driver jumped to his feet. Someone must
have sabotaged the car by releasing the brake. He should
have locked the car.
The black Mercedes sedan, with swastika flags flying
from the front bumper, gained speed as it rolled down the
hill, left the roadway, crossed the lawn, and crashed into a
large beech tree in the garden below. The front left fender
and headlight were crushed and the windshield shattered.

11
Parallel tire tracks left in the snow ran down to the
motionless car.
Mme. Marceau put her hand to her mouth to stop a laugh,
but she couldn’t suppress a snort. Her sister looked at her
and began chuckling at the sight and sound of her sister’s
uncontrollable snorting. They both tried to stop but their
reaction escalated. Tears came to their eyes, as they tried to
calm themselves.
The German driver grabbed his rifle. He was responsible
for the care of the Mercedes. He looked at the two women
laughing.
Guy opened his mouth to tell them, Watch out. Stop. Stop.
The driver charged their table with his rifle raised, ready
for combat. He knocked Mme. Marceau to the floor with his
rifle butt. She held her arms in front of her face. But he
continued to beat her face and body with the rifle butt. He
then turned on her sister and knocked her to the floor. He
began kicking her and beat her with the rifle. Both lay still
with their blood running in pools on the white tile floor.
Guy moved across the room as fast as he could. He raised
the broom with the heavy handle aimed away from his chest.
The German driver raised his rifle for another blow on one of
the women. Guy swung the broom handle in a wide arc. He
brought the full force of the broom staff with his solid body
and strong shoulders to the soldier. The blow snapped the
forearm of the German driver with a loud crack.
The driver screamed, “Ahhh,” and dropped his rifle. He
looked at his arm which hung at a bizarre angle. The German
adjutant jumped to his feet, grabbed his rifle and pointed it at
Guy.
Colonel ‘von Scheisekopf’ stood and watched Guy poised
for another blow at the driver. He pulled out his pistol with
his good left hand and aimed it at Guy. “Halt. Hände hoch.”
He stepped closer to Guy. “Idiot.” he screamed.
Guy dropped the broom and glared at the colonel.
Guy’s younger sister and mother came into the room. The
colonel pointed to them, still holding his pistol on Guy. “Get
a doctor for my driver.”
12
 He ignored the two women, motionless and bleeding on
the floor.
Mme. Grenier grabbed her daughter by the shoulder,
whispered in her ear, and pushed her toward the door.
He waved his pistol at Guy and shouted, “You. Out the
door.” He pointed to the door which led out onto the terrace.
Guy walked through the door to the terrace. The colonel
and the adjutant followed making tracks in the fresh carpet
of snow.
“Go.”
The colonel pointed to the stairs leading down to the
garden where the injured car rested. When the three got to
the bottom of the stairs, the colonel waved him toward a pair
of trees at the edge of the garden.
Guy walked to the two trees. His footprints marked the
white blanket of snow that covered the yard.
“Turn around,” the colonel said.
Guy faced him with his hands in the air.
“You are guilty of treason against the German army and
are sentenced to death.”
Guy stared at the colonel with contempt and disbelief. He
clenched his fists at his side.
The colonel waved to his adjutant to stand in front of
Guy. He moved with wide eyes to face the Frenchman.
“Achtung.”
The adjutant raised his rifle.
“Legt an.”
The adjutant aimed.
“Feuer.”
The adjutant fired once hitting Guy in the chest. He fell to
his knees. Eyes still open, he pulled both hands to his chest,
as if to hold himself together. He looked at his blood running
crimson into the clean white snow.
The colonel walked up to him and shot him in the temple.
Guy fell lifeless on his side, blood streaming over the snow.
Madame Grenier ran to him and screamed.
“No, no, no.”

13
 She dropped down to her son and held his head in her
arms, his blood soon covered her hands and apron.
“Why did you do this? He has done nothing,” she said.
The colonel put his pistol in the holster and walked back
up to the breakfast room. He did not realize what he had
started.

14
 4
Escape

Boots pounding louder shocked Nicole back to the present.

The soldiers returned. She inhaled and stopped breathing.
Falcon put his hand on her shoulder to calm her.
They could hear Germans running toward their hiding
place under the elderberry bushes. She came up on one knee
as the noise of heavy boots grew closer. They came fast. Her
heart beat with the approaching footsteps. She could feel a
synchronized thumping. It was only her heart.
She started to rise up and braced herself for the attack,
prepared to fight. Prepared to kill. She did not think of
surrender or capture. That would not be an option.
Falcon pushed her down and moved over on top of her,
forced her down, and shielded her with his body. Her cheek
in the wet leaves. His warm body reassured her.
The boots came within a few feet, slowed, and stopped.
They moved again. Then stopped. Seconds later, they moved
on. The pounding began to fade. Soon the distant sound of
occasional shots echoed from the trees.
She tried to move, to wake up sleeping limbs.
Falcon whispered, “Wait, wait.”
 Finally he moved.
“I think we are safe. But stay still.”
He rolled away from her. They didn’t move. She studied
Falcon’s face blackened with soot. His blue eyes scanned the
edges of the hedgerow. He raised his head to take in the
limited view in each direction. She felt his lean and muscular
body. Hard like a rock. As determined as anyone she had
met.
Questions rose in her mind about this Parisian. What
made him come here? What was so important to him? He
wore the clothes of a craftsman or a farmer and his face and
hands were tanned. But his hands were not rough. Smooth,
like his voice.
Nicole looked at her hands and wrists, scratched from the
brambles. She felt no pain or sting. Too much excitement.
Falcon crawled to an opening in the hedge, raised his hand
for her to wait, and looked around.
He whispered, “I think it’s safe. Let’s move. Keep low.”
They crouched along the bushes, to the other side of the
fields into the trees, then up the hill. She saw a road below
through the trees.
She pointed. “That’s my road. I’ll follow it to where I hid
my bicycle.”
“The farm where I’m hiding is over that next hill,” he
said. “This is where we part. You did well. Au revoir.” He
moved away and started down the hill.
“Au revoir.” Nicole waved. “I hope to see you again.”
“Oh, I am sure you will.” He waved back.
She wondered when that would be. She watched him as
he loped down the hill.

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