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Once Laurent and Philip have everything ready, they help me climb into the brick structure, hoisting me up as if I weigh nothing. My fingertips scrape along the rough surface as I grope around in the dark.
Palms clammy, I swing my legs over the side. The German soldier doesn’t fire or shout out an alarm, and I release a slow, even breath.
I can do this.
I signal with hand gestures for Laurent and Philip to lower me. The shaft is narrow, and I’m the only member of the team who can fit inside it. If there is ever an advantage to the starvation diet the Germans have reduced us to, this would be it. But how much longer will I be able to do this before my pregnancy prevents me from fitting in tunnel shafts?
I ignore the question for now and make my way down the tight brick enclosure, forcing myself to breathe slow and easy. I’m not usually claustrophobic, but I seem to be making an exception this one time.
The knowledge that my life is in the hands of Laurent and Philip isn’t helping. I trust them as much as I can in the short time I have known them. It’s the Germans I do not trust. All it takes is for one of them to discover Laurent or Philip at the entrance to the shaft, and my life is as good as forfeit.
I wiggle my way out of the bottom of the shaft until I’m dangling in the middle of the tunnel. I swing to and fro, a circus act minus the audience. No one is in here. Thank God for that. The guards are stationed outside at either end. They weren’t expecting anyone to climb down the shaft to blow up the railway tunnel.
I examine the scene in front of me, doing the reconnaissance work I was trained to do. I shine my torch up the shaft and turn it off and on two times, signaling for Laurent to pull me up. The two men haul me up as I wiggle my way through the shaft to the top.
At the opening, I draw in a deep lungful of cool night air and crawl out. I drop nimbly to the grass, my feet landing with a soft thud on the ground, the sound too quiet to be heard by the German soldier watching the area.
We lower the explosives into the tunnel, aware that we’re running out of time—both when it comes to the soldiers checking the area and the countdown until the explosives detonate.
As soon as the explosives and detonator are in position, the three of us run. Stealth is slightly less important at this point compared to speed. None of us want to be here when the show begins.
The damp grass muffles our footfalls. We’re nothing more than three dark shadows running in the night. As long as nothing goes wrong with the explosives, our mission has been a blooming success. The meeting spot is four hundred yards away, and we can watch the show from there.
“Halt!” The thunderous command shatters the quiet.
We don’t stop or slow down.
We sprint.
The loud bang of a gunshot punctures the air. The exhaustion that has been plaguing me for the last few weeks is shoved aside as a newfound energy fuels me onward.
Another bang. Only this time the noise is accompanied by a burning pain in my calf.
I push past the intense discomfort and limp-run through the forest, not daring to slow my pace. My injured calf will be the least of my concerns if I’m captured.
The crashing of undergrowth, the yelled commands, and the thud of boots against the hard dirt ground warn us of the Germans’ rapid approach. If we’re lucky, none of them have figured out why we are up here. They’ll focus their search on the hill and not on the contents of the tunnel.
We hurl ourselves down the steep incline, rolling and skidding under the cover of night. Small rocks and twigs scratch and dig into me, but they are better than the alternative.
We land at the bottom of the incline in dazed piles, alive for now. Above us, shouts of confusion make their way to us. We scramble to our feet and keep running. The danger is less real than it was a moment ago, but that doesn’t mean we can stay here, standing around waiting to get shot from above.
Once we’re far enough away to slow to a walk, my hand goes to my stomach and the baby growing within. The move is protective, comforting, as if to tell the baby that if they survive this, they will survive anything life throws at them.
I half expect to experience a sharp pain in my belly, warning me I’m about to lose the baby, but nothing comes. I don’t have time to dwell on that or how I feel about it. Laurent, Philip, and I pick ourselves up and stumble towards the meeting point a safe distance away.
We barely make it to the spot before a spark of light flashes from inside the depths of the tunnel. The light then blossoms into a beautiful dance of destructive flames and the billow of black smoke. Metal and brick buckle and burn, and the shockwave from the explosion collapses the tunnel in a mess of rubble.
The place is a chaos of colours and sounds, all of them breathtaking because it means one thing: we have just severed one of the railway arteries to the battle in the Atlantic Ocean.
“Show me your leg,” Philip says to me, volume low, tone tight.
“I’m fine. The bullet only nicked me.”
“I’ll let you know if you’re fine. I’m not going to have you pass out on me due to loss of blood. Plus, the Germans’ dogs will lead them to us if they catch scent of it.” His command-rough tone has me thinking twice about ignoring him.
I lean my hand on the thick trunk of a tree and let Philip examine the wound.
He rips my trouser leg, curses, and removes a canteen of water from his knapsack. He pours the cool contents over the wound, washing away the dirt that clung to it when I rolled down the hill.
