He was from the Abbey at Mont St. Michel on the coastal island they'd seen earlier that morning. Orders had gone out that the Abbey was off-limits to military personnel. No one was to go out to the ancient island fortress or the village at the base of the island when they made camp that night, and they had continued to skirt the island fortress.
“Something's up.” Callish tried to hear what they were saying, translating the rapid-fire conversation that was in French, then English.
“The fellow really has his robes in a knot.”
For the past several days, they'd been shadowing German troop movements, pulling farther back into France after the invasion a month earlier. In their wake, the Germans left towns and villages reduced to cinders and ash, inhabitants left homeless, or worse—executed on accusations that they'd cooperated with the Resistance and the Allies.
There was more conversation, then an American lieutenant walked toward them. He motioned to Paul. He exchanged a look with Callish, then followed. He caught a brief glance from Micheleine.
“You're to go with this woman,” the commander of the American unit told him. “Choose a man to go with you. You leave immediately.”
“What's happened?” he asked her.
“The monk brought word that one of our people is at the Abbey. He's been badly wounded. They received word that theAllies were nearby and sent the monk,” she explained. “They are afraid for him to be there with so many Germans still in the area. We have to try and get him out.”
“Christ!” Callish whispered, when he told him. “Now we're on a bloody rescue mission? And the village at the base of the island is probably crawling with Germans.”
It was a small group that was to go—the boy Nico, who was an expert at sneaking into places unnoticed; Micheleine, who apparently knew the man to be rescued; Callish himself; and four American soldiers.
They were all heavily armed, and against earlier orders they were to get into the Abbey at Mont St. Michel, and bring the injured man out.
“If you have the opportunity,” Paul was told, the captain of the American unit tapping his camera, “It would be helpful to have information on just how many Germans there are in the village.”
So much for creating a photographic history of the Allied invasion—now he was being sent to spy on the enemy.
There were two ways to access the abbey. When the tide was out, the causeway that linked the island to the mainland was exposed, but anyone crossing it was also exposed to any German soldiers who might be in the village at the base of the island. The second access was by boat when the tide was in, making travel extremely dangerous with unpredictable tides.
The latter choice answered the question about the American soldiers who were sent with them, all trained and experienced in water landings.
The monk had left the island under the pretext of seeing to the spiritual needs of people on the mainland. He was to return the following day by the same means. He had persuaded a local fisherman to leave his small craft anchored in the jetty where other fishermen kept their boats.
With instructions on the location of a sea gate where provisions had been loaded off ships over the centuries, they boarded the fishing boat. The Americans expertly navigated the boat under cover of darkness to the southern tip of the island.
“That's the last time I bloody volunteer,” Callish whispered over the chug of the small motor as they slipped around the tip of the island.
Paul didn't bother to remind him that everyone had volunteered, whether they wanted to or not.
They were in luck; the moon wasn't up yet. That advantage also worked against them as the small fishing boat churned through the water. When they were within a few hundred yards of the sea gate, one of the Americans cut the motor while the others slipped over the side.
They waited, waves lapping against the side of the fishing boat.
“Bloody foolish, if you ask me,” Callish whispered beside him.
“Is he always like this?” Micheleine asked.
“I try to ignore most of it,” Paul replied. Then Micheleine tugged at his sleeve.
“There.” She pointed through the darkness to a faint signal light.
The Americans had found the sea gate. Almost as soon as they saw the signal, one of them hoisted himself back over the side of the boat. He started up the motor and they slowly approached the base of the island, heading toward that faint flashing signal.
The sea gate of the island was set back in a small cove with a landing. They tied the boat and climbed the steps up to the landing. The landing extended into the base of the abbey behind thick sea doors that the monk had arranged to leave open at low tide. Inside those sea doors was a massive storage arealined with crates, boxes, lumber for repairs, and a cistern that provided fresh water for the island. Stairs climbed up from the storage chamber into the lower level of the abbey.
“They say it's a thousand steps from the village up to the abbey mount,” Callish complained beside him.
“We can always leave you behind,” Micheleine informed him.
Callish grumbled, then fell in with them as they started the climb.
