The French Tandem Compound
A short story
by
L.A.Summers

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L.A.Summers has asserted the right under the Designs and Patents Act 1988  to be regarded  as the author of this work which is published here for reader interest only.
Copyright: L.A.Summers 2007 All Rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written authority of the author being first obtained. Reproduction on websites of extracts, however small or paraphrased without written permission is breach of copyright.
The story will appear in Steam Pot Boilers to be published during 2008. Other enquires about publication and downloading should be made to the address on the Contact page.

I had intended to watch Francois closely for several days before making myself known. He no longer lived in the staff house at the end of the locomotive yard, indeed it was no longer there. His wife kept a pension on the edge of the town, quite a smart looking place though that owed little to him, Francois did some gardening and collected heavy orders of food and wine for his wife but most of his time was spent drinking coffee and wine with his cronies in La Cantina. They talked in low voices about everything and nothing as ordinary as anyone ensconced in any bar throughout the world. Events however, went beyond my control. I was sitting at an adjacent table when a young woman came in, went to the bar and said something to the patron.
“Francois!” The patron’s voice broke the calm like a falling tree though he spoke in only a normal voice, “There’s someone asking for you.”
Francois had aged and he turned in his chair with lugubrious effort. The woman approached his table.
“Monsieur Dugardo?”
“Who’s asking?” Francois had never been anything other than brisk, now he was merely brusque.
“My name is Ava Gallant, I am a journalist with the Belfort News.”
“And why, Mm Gallant, is the Belfort News interested in me?”
“I am told you have a story M’sieur. I am looking for stories for my newspaper.”
I had placed myself where I could both hear and see Francois’s table. A look of alarm chased across his face. But his friends were not so reticent. This had obviously happened before.
“Mademoiselle, Francois has many stories, which one do you wish to hear?”
“About your daughter,” she returned unaware of my sharp intake of breath.
“No,” Francois announced, “No, I am not in the mood.”
“Come M’sieur, there might be a few franks in it for you.”
This stopped him though it was still his table companions who showed the most enthusiasm for the story. The mention of money obviously worked on them.
“André, wine for the lady,” one of them called, and then, “Come, Mademoiselle, sit with us.”
She sat down, her haste apparently betraying her youthful lust for the story. The patron brought her a glass of white wine for which she thanked them but hardly touched.
“M’sieur Dugardo, I believe you were the chef d’machines..?”
His lined face regarded her with a face that betrayed mixed emotions.
“Yes, mademoiselle, I was the chef at the locomotive depot. Its closed now, these electric locomotives, they do not need great maintenance depots such as we had for steam locomotives.”
I was interested, surprised would not be too strong a word to see that the young woman had an understanding of what he was saying.  She had taken her coat off and in so doing revealed a slender and attractive body. She wore a pale green dress, long leather boots and her long hair cascaded around her shoulders like a mantilla. Francois began his story and I listened intently.
“Nueroche is a junction,” he said, “Even now the main line from Lausanne to Paris crosses that from Nancy to Lyon. Many trains pass through, a great many stop. More importantly, many start or end their journeys here. In the days before the war when trains were operated by steam it was necessary to have machines ready to operate them. When I was chef there were nearly 200 machines, from little switchers to big powerful compounds. We had some of M’sieur Chapelon’s best locomotives here.”
The girl was writing down his every word in very rapid shorthand.
“Then the Boche came,” Francois went on, “We could do nothing without their say-so. Passenger trains were cancelled. Nueroche became a centre for their transport operations. Many trains passed through, do not ask me what they carried, the burdens of my life are great enough without that I should bestir myself to consider those things. The Boche settled their control on everything. Their soldiery was everywhere, in my office, in the running shed, on the machines themselves. And anyone who failed in their eyes, cause some delay to a train, they shot them, there and then, on the spot, whether it was in the running shed or outside.”
He paused and I reckoned that this was from long practice; though he had not wanted to tell the story he had done so many times and he had learnt how to give effect to each stanza.
“I had a daughter. She was but 17 years of age and greatly admired by the boys of the neighbourhood for she was, like yourself, mademoiselle, very beautiful. She was not affected by this, she was not unfriendly to them and let them take her to the cinema, but that was it. But when the Boche came the boys went away and there was no one except the other girls in Nueroche. My wife asked the priest what she should do and the pére tells her to keep Monique safe and that in that way no harm would come to her. Advice..!” scorn entered his voice, “Who needs advice from a priest? How could my girl not meet the Boche, they were everywhere.”
He looked at his empty cup with meaning and the beautiful journalist motioned to André to bring more for all of them. As he passed me I saw him glance at my glass and I indicated without speaking that I should like it refilled.
Francois was continuing, “Monique had been attending the Ecole but it was closed and no one would offer her work. She had helped my wife around the house, sometimes bringing me my lunch to the depot. The mechaniciens had seen her do this for several years, they had seen her grow up and they all regarded her as their own daughter even though some of them had daughters of their own. Monique however was the chef’s daughter, a lovely girl who always had a smile for them and had learned something about the machines, knew some of the technical details and of course, they were impressed by this.
“I had for several days noticed that one of the younger Wehrmacht soldiers had been standing near the gate into the sidings where the turn-out from the depot was. I had at first assumed that he was another guard but he was unarmed and seemed to be watching the engines rather than us. I was appalled then to see Monique talking to him. When next I saw her I demanded to know what she was doing.
“He stopped me to ask about the Class G papa.”
“And how did he expect a girl to know something about locomotives?” I demanded.
“I asked him about that, he said that one of our people had told him that I knew ...”
“Who had told him?”
“I think he said that it was Jules..”
“Jules, that oaf, he was the cause of the trouble with Armand.”
“She ignored my reference to the one boy who had ever meant anything to her, a much older lad, whose intentions, to me, had always been obvious.
“He seemed very nice, papa, he said that he had been an engineer before the war.”
“Ah, so you have exchanged life stories have you?”
“No, papa...”
“Anyway, you are not to speak to him again, I forbid it.”
“Monique protested but she saw her mother’s disapproving look and said nothing more. But you are a young woman, mademoiselle, you know what it is like with girls, tell them ‘no’ and they interpret as ‘yes’.”
If he expected the journalist to comment he was mistaken for she merely went on writing, and Francois continued his story.
“A week later I went to the depot at noon to start my duty. I saw the Boche soldier again. Monique was with him and I was angered by this flagrant disobedience. I went to speak to her but she forestalled me.
“Papa, this is Dietrich Hauptmann, he has asked to meet you.”
“Monsieur Dugardo, I greet you.”
“He had a soft voice for a Boche but I was saved a NAZI salute, he merely bowed slightly and held out his hand. I ignored it and him.
“Monique, you were given explicit instructions.”
“But papa, Dietrich is not like other Germans, he knows about railways.”
“I’ll say this for the Boche, he knew how to undermine me.
“Forgive me, monsieur, it is I who pressed myself on Monique. I have never met a woman who knew what a tandem compound was.”
His audacity took my breath away and I reacted in a way I never intended.
“You understand such things M’sieur Hauptmann?”
“Yah, at home, in Rhein, I fire Herr Wagner’s big locomotives, I even fired on the Borsig Baltic.”
“His enthusiasm was infectious but I was not to be compromised.
“And now you are here, invading my country and taking over M’sieur Chapelon’s machines.”
“As intended, that threw him. But only momentarily.
“Perhaps monsieur there are some good things that spring from the bad.”
“His inference was obvious and I wasn’t having it.
“Well, monsieur Hauptmann you will honour Monique’s parents by not seeing her again..”
“Monsieur..!”
“Papa, Dietrich wants only to be my friend.”
“I insist, monsieur.”
“Well, he agreed to my demands but I knew that his word was worthless. To be fair to the Boche it was Monique who led him into breaking his promise to me. I couldn’t stop him standing by the turn-out road and I became aware that she was sometimes there with him. They were seen around the town and went to the cinema together. I said nothing but I knew that I would have to take some other form of action to stop this. I had not brought a daughter into the world to be the whore of a Boche.”
He paused to take a sip of his drink. Possibly reminded of it by what he was doing the young woman also lifted her own glass.
“Some while later I was approached at home by a person I did not like. His name does not concern us, he was a leader of the local Resistance, a communist, he had always angered me for spreading discontent among the mechaniciens and causing strikes. However when I was told that a very dangerous train was expected through Nueroche and that the RAF wanted our assistance in destroying it I had to listen to what he wanted. There was some doubt as to whether to hit it here at Nueroche during daylight or at Macon at dusk. They did not like daylight raids but this train was important and they seemed to think that smashing up the built facilities would assist with its destruction.”
Before continuing he affected a look of pain which I think was genuine enough.
“I thought about it for some while. You will understand that assisting in the destruction of my life’s work was not something to which I could readily agree. But sometimes there are higher things than one’s own vanity. I agreed that they should bomb Nueroche in daylight. I said that I would try to have as many machines on the sidings by the main line as possible, it would cause even greater disruption after the raid.
“I was later told the date of the raid and I told my wife that she should take Monique to the air raid shelter as soon as the siren sounded. On the day of the raid I intended to leave the depot early but I was delayed by an armoured train, it was obviously the one that the RAF were going to bomb. It was held by signals and I made several telephone calls to try to get the line cleared so that it would not miss the target area. I could not get out of the office before the train came rumbling towards Nueroche. At the same time I heard the heavy drone of the bombers nearly overhead. I was appalled then to find Monique outside, in the yard.”
“Papa, I came to warn you, mama says there is to be an air raid.”
“Most of the mechaniciens had been warned in some way that a raid would take place. She had come to look for me, thinking that I knew nothing of it. Why did my wife not tell her that it was I who had arranged it? I do not know and I have never been able to ask her. At that moment the bombs began to fall. We ran through the yard, over the turntable; the planes roared overhead emptying their cargoes of death as they went. We were running near the locomotives that I had put in the sidings. A bomb exploded on the other side. They shielded us from the main blast though it was enough to knock them sideways. Then I heard a noise at my side...”
He stopped again and this time it was not for effect but because it was genuinely difficult for him to continue.
“If I should live for ever,” he continued, “I will never erase from my mind the reason for that noise. I turned and saw that Monique had fallen. A chunk of boiler plate had been blown clear and struck her in the chest. She was dead, she had died instantly and there was nothing that I could do for her.”
There was a terrible silence in the bar. Even the patron who must have known the story and heard it retold many times was silent. Even twenty years on from that dreadful calamity the tragedy of the beautiful young woman taken in youth was still a source of great sadness in Nueroche. Francois finished his story in the only way he could.
“When the story of what happened became known, that Monique had gone to the air raid target area to warn her father, she was made a civilian member of the Legion d’Honour. It is a great thing but a nothing to those who loved her.”
I waited for a few moments to see if anything further would be said and then left La Cantina. But I did not go away. I waited on the other side of the street until Mademoiselle Gallent left the café. I hurried across and hailed her. She stopped, recognised me at once, a look of puzzlement crossed her face.
“Mademoiselle, your pardon, I was listening as Francois told you his story. I am interested in it myself.”
“You are, M’sieur, why should that be?”
“We cannot talk here, if you will jon me for a drink, I will explain.”
She grinned, despite the tension created by Francois’s story.
“Another drink, Monsieur?’
“There is no where else to talk.”
“Very well.”
We found another café, in a street off the main square and I told her what I knew. Her reaction surprised me.
“That is what I was told, I had hoped that Francois would tell it like that.”
“I want to confront him, will you accompany me?”
As luck would have it, as we returned to La Cantina we saw Francois come out of the bar. We did not intercept him immediately, not until he was on the road that led out of the town, one that was fairly deserted at this hour.
“Monsieur Dugardo!”
He halted at my hail and turned, his face clouding when he saw who it was. By arrangement the journalist held back a few metres, allowing me to approach Francois apparently alone.
“What would you have with me, M’sieur?”
“The truth, Francois, the truth that you have always refused to face...”
“What is this outrage, do you not think that I have suffered enough?”
“Oh yes, you’ve suffered Francois, more than most but not more than you deserve.”
His face took on the look of a haunted man confronted at last by all his devils..
“Why didn’t you tell the journalist what really happened in the loco-yard? That Monique was not trying to warn you of the raid. You were not late leaving your office, your wife met you on your way to the air raid shelter and told you that Monique was missing.”
“That is a lie,” he stormed.
But I had him in my power, he could not turn and run; he knew that at last his terrible betrayal would be revealed, the fact had him mesmerised and he could do nothing but hear the tolling of the words as they reverberated in the empty street.  
“I have studied the RAF records, the attack on the armoured train occurred just as you said. But what you didn’t tell anyone was that the decision to make it a daylight raid was opposed by everyone in London, only the determination of the Resistance with you at their back ensured that it took place then and not as they preferred, at dusk.”
He made no comment and stood there, silent like the condemned awaiting their fate.
“Why did you insist upon that, Francois, will you tell us or shall I have to remind you?”
He said nothing so I continued my monologue.
“Isn’t it true that you had learned the German soldier’s routine, when he would be at the gate by the turn-out road? The raid was timed to kill him, that is why you insisted...”
“No..!”
“Yes, but Dietrich Hauptmann was not there that day was he? He had been unaware that his unit was to move to Lafranca, there had been rumours that the depot would be attacked  as the armoured train passed through...”
“How can you possibly know this?”
He had suddenly found his voice, he had seen the journalist and was trying to regain the initiative.
“How do I know; well, Monsieur Dugardo I am Dietrich Hauptmann.”
He stared at me, appalled but helpless, like a murderer realising that he had no escape.
“The truth is that as soon as Monique found out that there was to be an air raid she realised that I would be in my usual place with my camera and notebook. She was patriot enough not to want to endanger the bombardment, but she did want to warn me off. When she got to the gate I was no where about and she reckoned that I had gone through into the depot to have a closer look. That is why she was killed isn’t it, Francois, because she came into the depot d’machines to look for me?”
If it is possible to sympathise with a guilty man then that was the moment that I might have had some such thought for Francois. But he was really quite undeserving, the man was a monster without scruple.
“You sought to kill me but killed your own daughter instead.”

A little while later I took Mm Gallent to a restaurant. She was catching the late train to Belfort and I thought it was appropriate that I should give her a meal. Towards the end of it I returned to the subject of Francois and Monique.
“Will you publish the truth, Mademoiselle?”
“I don’t know. She was awarded the Legion d’honour, how would it be now if it were to come out that she, a French girl was actually trying to save a Wehrmacht soldier?”
There was no answer to that and a silence fell between us that was not broken for several minutes.
“Herr Hauptmann, what is a tandem compound?”
I darted a glance at her but she was not being facetious.
“Its a locomotive in which the high and low pressure cylinders are arranged so that they drive through a single cross head. Its unusual in France, your engineers preferred the de Glehn layout...” My voice trailed off, the technicalities could not mean much to her.
“Yes, that is what I believe,” she replied, thoughtfully.
I stared at her.
“You know that?”
She ignored my question, asked one of her own.
“You did not take up with my admission that I already knew the truth,” she said.
Well I had but in the rush of events I had not thought any more about it.
“So how did you know?”
“Because,  Herr Hauptmann, I know certain things that even you don’t.”
I made no answer, I was astonished by her response.
“You will remember that Francois mentioned Armand who through Jules had got Monique into trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Did you not wonder what that trouble was?”
My mind whirled and I began to understand better.
“Francois told us that Monique was away at the Ecole before the Germans came. That is not true, she was living with relatives in Bordeaux while she gave birth to Armand’s child. The arrival of the invaders at the time of her return to Nueroche was a coincidence, nothing more.”
“What happened to the child?”
“It was adopted, the church saw to that, needless to say. But Monique outwitted even the clerics of Bordeaux...”
“Oh?”
“From Nueroche she wrote to the relative, actually an aunt on her mother’s side, enclosing a letter that she asked her to pass on to the child at some point in its life; she was lucky, the child remained in Bordeaux and the aunt saw it almost every day. Nothing was said until she was 16 years old. Then Monique’s aunt died; it is possible that she would never have passed the letter on but the aunt’s relations, finding it, did so. In it was a photograph of the child’s long dead mother and the address in Nueroche. The child started making her own enquiries, she found out that her real grandfather had been a railway officer, she read books about machines the better to understand him...”
“Mademoiselle,” I interrupted her, “May I ask how you know this, are you in contact with the child.”
“Yes, Herr Hauptmann, very much so, I am Monique Dugardo’s daughter.”