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  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER 1: CHATEAU GRANDBULON

  CHAPTER 2: A FUGITIVE FROM FEAR

  CHAPTER 3: ALGY MAKES A WAGER

  CHAPTER 4: A MAQUISARD LOADS HIS GUN

  CHAPTER 5: ALGY SPOILS SOME BREAKFASTS

  CHAPTER 6: THE ROAD SOUTH

  CHAPTER 7: MONTE CARLO RALLY

  CHAPTER 8: HARD WORDS AT VILLA CLEMENT

  CHAPTER 9: BACK TO LA SOLOGNE

  CHAPTER 10: THE FOREST SHOWS ITS TEETH

  CHAPTER 11: A VISITOR BY NIGHT

  CHAPTER 12: BIGGLES TURNS THE TRICK

  CHAPTER 13: INTERLUDE FOR DISCUSSION

  CHAPTER 14: GAMBLER’S CHOICE

  CHAPTER 15: MORE WORK IN THE DARK

  CHAPTER 16: AN OLD MAN REMEMBERS

  CHAPTER 17: BETWEEN TWO FIRES

  PREFACE

  A FEW WORDS ABOUT LA SOLOGNE

  FRANCE is a country of many parts, each having little resemblance to the others. The terrain is different, the people are different and the conditions of life are different. Most of these districts, which carry a general name but have no visible boundaries, are well known to tourists, notably the ever popular Riviera. Nothing could be more unlike than the Ile de France, with its plains rolling away to the horizon, and the towering Pyrenees.

  But unless the voyager has some specific reason for going there, or happens to find himself on the great highway known as Route Nationale 20, it is unlikely that he will hear of La Sologne. Even in that event he will little suspect what lies on either side of the road, for hundreds of square miles of forest, swamp and jungle, are not what he would expect to find in the heart of a country wherein agriculture is a basic industry.

  To paint a pen portrait of this strange land of nearly a million and a half acres will not be easy, but we must try, for the reader should know something of it from the outset. Apart from being a land of moods, La Sologne takes care that you do not see all her face at one time. At every turn the scene is different, yet there is no particular view to remember. Indeed, from La Ferté St Aubin in the north (on the map you will find it about twenty-five miles south of Orleans) to Vierzon in the south, a matter of roughly forty miles, the traveller by road may think the countryside monotonous. Actually, it is one of the wildest, and for that reason for some people one of the most fascinating, stretches of country in Western Europe.

  For the most part La Sologne is true forest, with stands of oak, chestnut, birch, fir and pine. The ground underfoot may be arid, supporting a tangle of heather, sometimes waist high, or it may be a reedy swamp extending for miles. There are jungles of scrub and undergrowth that are literally impenetrable. Everywhere trailing brambles drag on the feet. Scattered over the whole area are lakes, large and small, more than a thousand of them, dark, solitary, tranquil, fed by furtive-looking streams that glide mysterious courses through the labyrinth. Over all hangs a brooding silence that seems to fall from the sky, and at sunset creates a haunting, often sinister, atmosphere.

  This is not to say that so vast a tract of land is uninhabited. On the main road that cuts through it like a knife from north to south there are one or two small towns and villages, and on either side of it you will find an occasional farmer scratching a living in a clearing; for the soil is poor, and in recent years a great many of these homesteads have been abandoned. Apart from the diehards fighting their losing battle with nature, the only man you might meet, except in the shooting season, would be a forester or a gamekeeper. The visitor might walk all day long, as has the writer, without seeing a living soul or hearing sound of one. A man seeking solitude will certainly find it here.

  For the bird-watcher it is a paradise, but let him beware of snakes, one species of which is venomous. The lizards are harmless, as are most of the wild creatures that have here found a safe retreat; and that includes the great deer as well as the smaller roe. An exception can be the sanglier, the wild boar, an ugly beast that can weigh up to hundreds of pounds and has tusks that would rip a man to pieces should he fall foul of one in a nasty mood. But even the sanglier, left alone, is not to be feared. By day he retires to the thickest jungle, and there, unless disturbed, he is content to remain until nightfall, when he emerges to foray for food. Upset or wounded, like all his species, he can be a devil incarnate.

  In the autumn hunting seasons La Sologne is the Mecca of sportsmen, for game abounds—pheasant, partridge, woodcock, snipe, wild duck, and the like. There are fish, too, in the lakes—enough to satisfy the most ambitious angler. Areas of ground are rented by those who can afford them, and this, in the 19th century (when men had money to spend) produced what at first seems a startling paradox in the form of hunting lodges of a size and splendour seldom found elsewhere—mansions of forty, fifty, or even eighty bedrooms. Some are still occupied; others are empty and have fallen into disrepair, with roses, long untended, fighting a hopeless battle with the weeds.

  How did this wild place come into existence? Standing within the forest with the smell of rotting leaves in the nostrils, a buzzard circling overhead and a fox slinking across a glade, one has a feeling that this was how much of Europe must have looked ten thousand years ago. It is said that during the wars of the Middle Ages, and after, when the land was a prey for marauding gangs of disbanded soldiery, the people who dwelt here—those who had not been murdered—fled, leaving the ground to go back to swamp and forest; and since that time the huge sum of money that would be necessary to drain it and restore it to cultivation has not been available. So it remains as the visitor will find it today, a land which Nature has won back from men in spite of their machines.

  The men who lived in the region during the Dark Ages have left their marks, although these are fast disappearing. One comes upon crumbling, overgrown ruins; fortified, moated sites that once were castles, and even churches. Old foresters whisper darkly of underground passages, too. But the hand of death and decay has fallen heavily on these relics of a forgotten past, and sympathetic nature is fast burying them in a shroud of moss and ivy. Even the rabbits have gone, wiped out by the deadly myxomatosis; and how many there must have been may be judged from the fact that at one time the district exported three million a year. Now the burrows, like so many of the homes, are empty.

  La Sologne has had more recent troubles, and if one other thing was needed to complete the atmosphere of tragedy and chill the heart of the visitor it is there. Graves. Graves, sometimes solitary, sometimes in long rows. Little white crosses, everywhere. Usually there is just a name, or names, and below, those significant words that speak for themselves: Mort pour la Patrie: Morts pour la Liberté de leur Pays: or, Morts pour la Résistance. The visitor will come upon this melancholy harvest of war everywhere, in the woods, the fields, or by the roadside. Under each cross lies a Maquisard, one of the boys or girls (many were students) who refused to be conscripted into Hitler’s forces. As one enters La Ferté St Aubin in the north, by the roadside lie forty-five.

  La Sologne, by reason of its nature, became a hiding- place, during the occupation of France by Germany, for the Maquis, as they were called, or the Résistance. When they were caught they were shot out of hand. The German method employed to find them was to infiltrate a collaborator into the forest. He would pretend to be a Maquisard, or an escaped prisoner, and having been received by the boys and girls in hiding would later slink away and betray them. To such base treachery can human beings sink. Did I say human? Inhuman would be a better word. So their victims were shot, peasant, priest and pupil, men, women and children whose only crime was patriotism. Many died shouting defiance at their murderers, and today, should you pass that way, you may see where they lie. There are British names among them. But times are changing, and perhaps these things are
best forgotten.

  One need not be too depressed by this, for as an old Maquisard told the author simply, but for this sacrifice how would we know of their courage? Courage of the highest order was needed by these Davids to defy the invading Goliath.

  These are not the only thought-provoking things the visitor may find in that strangely beautiful, sometimes gay and sometimes sad, often menacing, always lonely, usually silent area of France that is called La Sologne.

  One final note. The events narrated in the following pages occurred some years ago, but for certain good reasons which the reader may guess it was thought desirable at the time to withhold them from publication.

  W. E. JOHNS

  At La Sologne, 1955

  CHAPTER 1

  CHATEAU GRANDBULON

  FLIGHT-LIEUTENANT The Honourable Algernon Lacey, D.F.C., R.A.F. (retired), stopped his car for the second time in five minutes and with a gloved hand wiped away the snow that clogged his windscreen wipers. The frown that furrowed his forehead deepened as he returned to his seat and peered into the whirling flakes which, under a darkening sky, reduced visibility to a few yards. Telling himself that he must have been mad to attempt the trip—for the weather forecast had been ominous—he switched on his headlights, but finding they did nothing to improve matters turned them off again.

  As the car crawled on in first gear he found comfort in two redeeming factors. The road, N.20, like most French roads, cut across the countryside on a line as straight as the flight of an arrow; and with the little town of Salbris behind him he knew he must be nearing his destination. What he would find on reaching it was a question open to doubt, but he had no fears on that score. Even if he found the Chateau Grandbulon unoccupied the gamekeeper would be in his cottage nearby. At least, so he had been told. Failing that, he had a key.

  The little village that was his next landmark emerged reluctantly from the gloom astride the road, the dilapidated houses looking even more poverty-stricken than is so commonly the case in remote rural France. Not a soul was in sight, although that, considering the weather, was no matter for wonder. Lowering the side window for a clearer view he went on, driving ever more slowly, watching for the second turning on the left which he had been told to take. The blizzard seemed to be getting worse with a rising wind lifting the snow already fallen to dance in swirling eddies with that which still fell. That such weather could occur, in early spring, so far south, astonished him. But he had come too far to turn back now.

  The opening which he sought appeared as a narrow break between drooping firs standing shoulder to shoulder. Into it he swung the car to find himself on a track rather than road. But of that he had been warned. Only nine more kilometres, he told himself.

  The trees now served a useful purpose, for the track being under snow which was beginning to pile into drifts he found it easier to keep straight by looking up and following the slightly less dark line between the inky silhouettes on either side. Night fell. The track seemed endless, the forest seemed endless and the snow inexhaustible. He saw no one, met no vehicle and encountered no animal. Only he, he told himself bitterly, had been fool enough to be caught out on such a night. One thing was certain. If he managed to reach the house, whether or not there was anyone there he would be benighted in it.

  His fear now was that he might overshoot the accommodation drive that gave access to the building that was his objective. The third turning on the right had been his instructions.

  So this, he mused, was La Sologne. He had chosen a fine moment to introduce himself. At least the car kept going, which was something to be thankful for. Half a dozen times he had to get out to clear jammed windscreen wipers.

  He saw, and passed, the first turning. By the time he had reached the second, which was some distance on, he was becoming worried, for the snow was now some five or six inches deep and he wondered how long it would be before it brought him to a halt. Another anxiety was the narrowness of the tree-lined track, which would prevent him from turning should he go too far; and in such conditions there could be no question of travelling in reverse.

  In point of fact he nearly did go too far, and it was only the solid black bulk of a cottage that caused him to step on his brake just in time. Getting out, car-torch in hand, he confirmed that the black object was a cottage, standing a few yards back from the road at the junction of a lane that came in at right angles. Groping about at the corner he found the signpost which he had been told was there. Sweeping it clear of snow, behind a pointing finger he picked out the words Chateau Grandbulon, which told him, to his great satisfaction, that he had arrived. The cottage could only be that of Pierre Sondray, the gamekeeper.

  He advanced to the door, for should Pierre prove to be at home there would be no point in going on to the chateau. Not a glimmer of light showed anywhere from door or window which closer inspection revealed had been shuttered. It looked as if no one was at home. However, he beat on the door with his fist. There was no answer. Clearly, the keeper was not within, and turning away, in front of what had been a few square yards of garden he stumbled over the reason.

  It was a cross. A rough, home-made wooden cross, painted white. His heart missed a beat. A cross! What was it doing there? He guessed the answer even before he cleared it of snow and turned the light of his torch on the crossbar. ‘Pierre Sondray—Marie Sondray’ he read, his lips unconsciously forming the words. ‘1944. Morts Pour la Patrie.’ Mort Pour la Patrie! A cold hand seemed to settle on his heart as he realized that this fateful epitaph could have only one meaning. Pierre and his wife Marie had died for their country. How? Why here? For a moment Algy’s brain whirled as the significance of the date struck him. They had died together, and together they had been buried near their own front door.

  He drew a deep breath. Then his lips came together in a hard line. So the enemy had been here—caught them hiding Maquis, or suspected them of it, which would be enough to seal their doom. Or perhaps they had been helping escaped prisoners, as many did, and so had paid the penalty.

  For a moment Algy stood with bowed head, one hand resting on the simple monument which in few words said so much; stood while something seemed to stick in his throat, heedless of the snowflakes that settled on his eyelashes as if to veil the scene. Why he should be so strangely affected he did not know, for he had never known the gamekeeper or his wife. Perhaps the loneliness, or the snow that lay over the humble graves like a white sheet, helped to induce a feeling of personal loss.

  Pulling himself together, deep in depressing thoughts he made his way slowly back to the car. Even as he reached it the headlights flickered and went out, presumably the result of a ‘short’ in the ignition caused by accumulated snow. Well, there was nothing he could do about it until daylight, he told himself resignedly.

  The car stood foul of the road, so having at some risk moved it nearer to the side he prepared to walk the rest of the way, knowing he had not far to go. He had nothing to carry, not even a handbag, for his intention had been, after having achieved his purpose, to return to Paris forthwith. There was now no possibility of getting back.

  The walk to the chateau was nothing much in the way of distance but it was one to make him glad it was not longer. Knee deep in drifted snow he blundered over fallen branches and often had to tear his legs from unseen briars or brambles. Without the torch, he perceived, he would have been hopelessly lost. However, after a twenty minutes’ struggle he collided with a structure that turned out to be a stone terrace, and this told him that he had arrived. Not without difficulty he found the steps leading to the top, and there before him loomed what was obviously the main entrance to the building. He could see little of it, but boarded-up windows told him what he really needed to know. There was no one in residence, not even a caretaker, or the boards would have been removed.

  Finding the bell chain he pulled it, more as a matter of courtesy than in the expectation of a response. There was no response. He tried again, and heard the hollow jangle of a bell in the
distance. There was no other sound. For a minute he waited, crouching against the doorpost to escape the broad white flakes that still fell in silent procession. When no one came he took from his pocket a large, old-fashioned iron key, inserted it, turned it with an effort, and with another effort pushed open the heavy door on protesting hinges. Removing the key he put it in the lock on the inside and closed the door. He did not trouble to lock it, seeing no reason to do so. There was no one inside to go out, and it seemed highly improbable that there was anyone outside who would wish to come in.

  Standing there, just inside the door, having brushed the worst of the snow from his jacket, with the beam of the torch he explored his immediate surroundings. What he saw was what he expected, only rather more so. It was not the sort of place he would have chosen to pass the night; but there had been no choice, and he was in no case to be particular.

  He had arrived, he perceived, in the entrance hall. For that he was prepared, but he had not anticipated anything on so grand a scale. It appeared to occupy half the front of the house. So far did it extend on either side of him that his torch only just succeeded in probing the distant shadows.

  Facing him was a great fireplace, flanked by leather-covered arm-chairs of appropriate size. From above it the glazed eyes of an antlered head stared down at him unwinkingly in an expression of accusing reproach. As the circle of light thrown by the torch moved slowly along the wall it revealed more heads; deer, large and small; foxes, badgers, and last but not least, a mighty boar, long curving tusks gleaming, its lips parted in an eternal snarl of defiance. Nearby, a stuffed owl regarded it with startled wonder. There were pictures of the chase, too. A war-scarred sanglier led his family through a sunset-tinted glade in the forest; a fox stood astride the bloodstained remains of a pheasant, ears pricked, alert for danger; a mighty stag drank cautiously from a pool dappled with the light of a rising sun. Old guns, duelling pistols, swords and a hunting horn, had been arranged in a pattern between the pictures. The skins and hides of long dead animals rugged the hearth. A broad flight of stone stairs swept up to the next floor.