MICHEL Gadda wiped oil from his hands and looked towards the ridge for the hundredth time. The sun stood at its full height now, and soon shadows would begin to form in the deep of the valley below. Eyes narrowed, he squinted around the higher slopes. Here and there a glint showed the presence of men. He swigged water from a leather bottle, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.
In the rear of the car the woman appeared asleep, head resting on a silk cushion against the central arm of the seat. Gadda smiled down at her and walked up the road a way to watch the ridge.
He watched for a long time, until his eyes began to smart from the glare of the rocks. About to turn back to the car he saw something move on the ridge, where the gulley appeared from the French side. He turned and strode to the car.
The woman sat up. “Oui Michel?”
The tall blond scooped up his Schmeisser and clipped grenades onto his shirt pockets.
“Somebody is coming over the top.” he rapped, “Remain in the car until I check it out.” Then he was away, legs pumping like pistons, up along a dry stream bed he had reconnoitred some hours before, knowing that his action would warn the others of the approach from the north.