If it were any colder out here, I would swear it was the same temperature as Major Hochstetter's heart, Schultz thought, plowing through a snowdrift forming around Barrack 7's door. And to top it off, I have a hole in my boot. The only thing worse than having a hole in your boot in a blizzard is having a hole in your boot in a blizzard and having nothing to look forward to other than spending the rest of the night shivering while you're on patrol. He moaned. My poor toes will be frozen by morning.
He shuddered as a crisp wind gust tore through his uniform overcoat. He flexed his hands. My fingers feel like they're frozen to my rifle. They'll probably match my toes by morning.
"Think about something else," he muttered. "Think about something else."
The only other thing he could think of, however, was the chilly reception he'd received from the men in Barrack 7 while he performed his nightly inspections. Those boys really need to learn how to have a little fun. All they ever do is read and ignore everyone. At least Barrack 9 has nightly singing practice and Barrack 4 has knitting competitions. He smiled, even though his mustache felt like it might fall off any minute. Oh, boy, are they fierce! I've never seen such shouting over scarves and mitts.
Schultz shrieked as snow blew off the roof and slid down the back of his neck, and double-timed it to Barrack 2. Who knows what monkey business they're up to.
He pushed the door open when he reached it, expecting to see the men scrambling to hide their contraband possessions, or pretending they weren't doing anything. Much to Schultz's surprise and relief, they sat around the common table, so engrossed in whatever Newkirk was saying, they didn't notice his arrival.
Schultz moved in closer as the Englishmen lowered his voice.
"So, I open the door, and who do I find?" Newkirk paused, letting the anticipation build. "None other than Miss Claudette Colbert, lying on a couch."
Olsen wiped his brow while the other men gasped. "Wow. What did she do?"
Newkirk winked. "She was a marvelous bird, if you know what I mean."
A ripple of excited murmurs filled the room.
Hogan grinned. "I've heard this story before, only in her version she screamed and threw a vase at your head."
The Englishman frowned. "Her version?" His eyes widened. "No."
Hogan nodded. "Claudette told me that story when we shared a glass of champagne at the Hollywood premier of It's a Wonderful World.I must say, she's a charming girl. I stole her right from under Jimmy Stewart's nose."
Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Officers have all the ruddy luck."
Schultz's eyebrows rose. "What are we talking about?"
Hogan turned to him. "Hi Schultz." He frowned. "Say, you look like a German icicle. Have a cup of coffee."
The guard rubbed his hands gratefully. "Oh thank you, Colonel. The weather out there isn't fit for a dog." His eyes gleamed. "Now, what's this about pretty movie stars?"
"We're talking about famous people we've met," Kinch replied. "Mine was Olivia De Haviland."
Carter's eyes widened. "Really?"
The other sergeant nodded. "She was visiting friends in Detroit when their telephone line went haywire. Guess who fixed it?"
Carter grinned. "Gee, a real movie star. I've never met one of them. Though, I did meet Ty Cobb once. He came in my drug store looking for aftershave."
Schultz straightened an imaginary tie and poured himself some coffee. "I met a very famous person once. I was having a sandwich in a little restaurant in Berlin when someone asked me if they could have my table. Guess who it was?"
"Marlene Dietrich?" LeBeau asked.
Schultz shook his double chin. "It was the Fuhrer himself."
The men let off a chorus of boos. A dirty sock flew past Schultz's head.
Hogan raised his voice. "Knock it off, fellas. The man can't help it if he hasn't rubbed noses with anyone worth mentioning." He gave Schultz an innocent choirboy look. "Did you at least ask Scramblebrains for his autograph?"
Schultz frowned. "Jolly jokers."
Newkirk nudged LeBeau, who sat next to him. "What about you, mate? Who have you met?"
LeBeau put his hand to his chin, his eyes unfocusing. "I met a very famous man once when he visited Paris. I was about nine when it happened. My father and I went to Paris to help my uncle prepare dinner for this very special guest."
oOo
"Papa," Louis whined, reaching for a carrot. "Can I take a break, please? I'm tired."
The elder LeBeau leaning over his bubbling pot, shaking his head. "You disappeared for an hour the last time you had a break. No, you're going stay right here and work. You can go for a break when I say you've earned it."
Louis groaned. The kitchen was cramped and hot, and the smell of pepper, garlic and basil made his stomach growl. "But I really need it! I've worked very hard." He held up the vegetable. "See? This is the last carrot in the bag!"
Papa sighed, wiping his forehead with a damp sleeve. "You'll give me no peace until I say yes, will you? Alright, make it quick, but don't leave the kitchen."
"Thank you, Papa," the boy gushed, scrambling down from his hard wooden stool. He stretched his arms, savouring how good it felt. His fingertips knocked a dirty pan, which clattered to the floor.
The middle-aged man fixed his son with a sharp stare. "Louis! Please be more careful."
Louis grabbed the pot and hurried to the sink. "Sorry, Papa."
Papa rubbed his forehead. "Why did I let you talk me into bringing you here?"
The boy dumped the pot into the brown water. "Mousier Lindbergh is my hero. I wouldn't miss meeting him for the world."
Papa wiped his hands on a towel. "I never said you'd meet him."
Louis ignored him, bumping into his sweaty uncle.
"Mind yourself, boy, or I'll make you into pâté!" the chef growled, spit flying into his greying beard.
Louis bristled, about to launch into a tirade about manners when his father turned to his brother. "Watch your mouth, Bernard! I don't care if you're catering the dinner in Monsieur Lindbergh's honour at the the Hôtel de Ville(*) tonight. It doesn't give you the right to threaten my son, and your nephew."
Bernard waved a spatula at his sibling. "Why did you bring him here, my soft-headed brother? A kitchen is no place for a child."
"Louis can pull his own weight. Besides, his presence was part of our agreement . Let's not forget; it was you who begged me for help. I would've been content to stay home in Evreux instead of cooking for some flying mailman."
"He's not a flying mailman!" Louis shouted. "He's the greatest pilot who ever lived. He flew the Spirit of St. Louis, the greatest plane ever built, from America to Le Bourget all by himself with no help or sleep!"
Bernard turned his spatula on a stubborn crêpe "If I had known how much trouble you two were going to be, I would've left you in that backwater town and made that American eat whatever I damn well felt like making him instead of preparing all these fussy dishes. Though, you know how boorish those Americans are. He'd probably say my escargot tasted like erasers and ruin my business."
"He would not!" Louis protested. "Monsieur Lindbergh is a great, cultured man!"
"Enough!" His father hissed. "Get back to work or I'll make you into pâté myself."
Louis smiled. His father often made silly threats when he talked to his brothers and sisters, but something in his tone warned Louis not to try the man's patience. Instead, he hopped back onto the stool and finished peeling the carrot when the phone rang.
"Emile, answer that, please!" Bernard shouted.
"Oui, Papa." A flurry of footsteps sounded in the next room. "Hello? Oui." A pause. "Oui, but monsieur!" Another pause. "Oui, I'll tell him."
A few moments later, the older blond boy rammed the kitchen door open.
Uncle Bernard scowled. "Emile! How many times have I told you to be careful! This is a respectable kitchen, not one of those American clubs you're always reading about!"
"Sorry." The teen hurried to his father's side. "I have terrible news. Monsieur Lefevre asked me to tell you to have dinner ready an hour early."
Dubois threw his spatula across the room. "Sacre chats! I can't prepare that much food so quickly. I'm ruined, absolutely ruined. I wish that American had crashed in the ocean."
Louis's father slapped his shorter brother. "Don't fall to pieces now! There's still much work to be done in such little time. We'll make sure this dinner is one Mousier Lindbergh will never forget, won't we Louis?"
The child beamed. "Oui."
Bernard shook his head, as if clearing it. "You're absolutely right." He turned his sharp gaze at the boys. "Emile, start kneading this dough. Louis, finish those potatoes. We have people to feed!"
oOo
Louis breathed a sigh of relief as Emile leapt out of the truck and whisked covered trays of food through a side door to the Hôtel de Ville. It had been hard work, but they'd met the deadline. Now I can meet Monsieur Lindbergh. He opened his car door, his fingers tingling as he thought of the American aviator shaking dignitaries' hands inside. What shall I say when I see him? I know, I'll tell him about how great an honour it is to meet a man like him, or how I wish I could be a pilot just like him.
"Where are you going?" his father barked. "You're staying here to watch the truck."
"Papa, no," Louis whined. "I want to meet Monsieur Lindbergh!"
He shook his head. "You know we're forbidden to mingle with the guests."
The boy kicked the dashboard. "It's not fair! Please, Papa, let me go in."
"Don't kick your uncle's truck!" his father snapped. "We cannot break the rules, Louis. Surely you understand." He turned when his son kicked the truck again in response. "Louis Francois LeBeau! Come here! Now!"
Louis swallowed hard as he slid over to his father's seat, his lip trembling. I've done it now. A few minutes later, he was back in his seat, alone with his sore behind.
"Look!" Emile said, waving his hand while he strutted like a peacock.
"What?" Louis replied. "All I see is your sweaty palm."
His cousin pointed to his hand. "That's not my sweat. It's Monsieur Lindbergh's. He shook my hand! He actually shook my hand."
"You lie!" Louis hissed. "My papa says we can't mingle with anyone."
He shook his head. "My papa made an exception."
The younger boy rolled up his window. "Leave me alone!"
Emile laughed. "You're jealous!"
"I am not!" Louis muttered as his tormentor walked away. "And if I was, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of knowing." He sighed. "Oh, Monsieur Lindbergh, if only I could come to you, or you could come to me." He wiped his eyes, pretending it was leftover sweat from working in the kitchen, which felt like a furnace when they'd left."What'll I tell Henri and Noel when I get home? What'll I tell everyone?" He groaned, burying his face in his hand, until he heard a small knock. He turned and met the gaze of a blond-haired girl, who was smaller than him.
"Pardon et moi," she said as he rolled the window back down. "Why are you crying?"
He turned away, his cheeks burning. "I'm not crying," he whimpered.
"Then why do you sound like you are?"
"Go away!" he snapped. "I hate girls!"
She drew back, her eyes filled with hurt. "You are a very mean little boy! I should've known by that look on your face. No wonder you're all alone. No one must like you."
He folded his arms. "What do you want?"
The girl sat down in the road, her blue dress soaking up the street grime. "Someone to talk to. Mama's serving Monsieur Lindbergh and the other big shots right now and she left me with the other mothers' girls." She frowned. "I got bored, so I came out here."
Louis stared out the front windshield. "Why is everyone talking about Monsieur Lindbergh? He's not so important. He only flew across the ocean. Anybody could do that. He probably didn't even do it himself. Won't all those people feel silly when they realize it?" His lip quivered again. "I'm glad I'm not meeting him."
Her expression softened as he started crying again. "Oh, you poor thing. You want to see him don't you? But you can't because you're here." She rubbed her chin.
"What are you doing?" Louis snapped.
"Thinking. This is what my papa does when he's thinking." She smiled. "I know. I could watch the truck for you and you could go see Monsieur Lindbergh!"
He shook his head. "My papa won't let me leave."
She waved the idea away. "He doesn't have to know. Go, quickly!"
Louis checked the street to make sure no one had heard them. "What's your name?"
She brushed a ringlet out of her eyes. "My name's Marie." She cleared her throat. "I mean, Mademoiselle Monet."
"Well, Mademoiselle Monet." He bent down to kiss her cheek. "I'm forever in your debt."
Marie blushed. "My first kiss." She looked back at him as he burst through the building's side door. "Merci, Monsieur! Please, tell me, what is your name?"
Louis slammed the door shut in reply.
oOo
Louis hurried down the main corridor, ducking behind pillars and in the Hôtel de Ville's many alcoves whenever someone walked past. As much as he hated playing hide and seek with his brothers and sisters, especially when they hid in the cellar, shed or a closet, he was grateful it had taught him the art of sneaking without detection.
Slowly, now. You're almost there.
He hid behind a vase when he spotted two men in evening attire, one short and heavy, the other tall and thin, approaching him.
The thin man tugged at his tie when the other man spoke. "Oh, yes, I'm fine. I just need a little air. Alone, if you don't mind."
The paunchy one backed away. "Very well. I'll leave you, then."
Louis frowned. They're speaking English. They must know Monsieur Lindbergh. Perhaps I should ask them where I can find him. He rubbed his nose. On second thought, I'll find him myself. They'd probably turn me in to Papa if I speak to them.
The other man remained by the window, taking great care to hide behind the drapes. He looks like he'd rather be elsewhere. So would I, if I had to wear that monkey suit.
The man didn't move for a few minutes. Sacré chats, will you go already! How can I leave with you still standing here?
Louis fidgeted, trying to scratch an itch on his back when he bumped into the vase, which wobbled on its stand before crashing to the floor.
The stranger turned to him, a mixture of confusion and apprehension on his famous narrow face. His blond hair looked as tousled as it did in the newspapers.
Louis gasped. Incroyable.
"Monsieur Lindbergh!" the other man shouted, running toward them. "Is everything alright? I heard a crash."
Lindbergh turned to the crowd forming outside the dining room. "Everything's fine, Ambassador Herrick. I just knocked this vase over. Send my apologies to the people of Paris and put it on my bill."
Herrick laughed and motioned for the guests in the dining hall to return to their seats. Louis's jaw dropped as Lindbergh crouched before him."Do you speak English?" he asked. "I don't understand much French."
Louis nodded.
"Good. Now what in tarnation were you doing behind that vase? You scared me silly when it hit the floor."
"I, I, I," the boy stammered.
Lindbergh sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm sure it was just an accident. I guess I'm a little jumpy from all this attention. I'm not used to people crowding around me all the time, waving and shouting, wanting my autograph. Sometimes I wish I was flying over the ocean all over again instead of being on the ground with them. Have you ever seen the ocean at night?"
Louis shook his head.
"I'll tell you, son, there isn't a prettier sight. And there's no greater feeling than flying under the stars; just you, the wind and all the majesty God created. Do you want to be a pilot when you grow up?"
Louis nodded again.
"That's wonderful. Don't listen to anyone who tells you there's no future in it. A lot of people told me that, and if I'd listened to them, I wouldn't be standing here right now. Technology is going to take mankind places it could only dream of before."
Louis started to speak when Herrick tapped Lindbergh's shoulder. "They're missing you already, Slim."
Lindbergh stood up and waved at the boy. "Au revoir, son. It was nice meeting you."
Louis waved back, searching for all the words he'd imagined saying to his hero since he found out his father would take him to Paris to cook for the American aviator. He opened his mouth to at least say goodbye, but only managed a small croak.
Lindbergh didn't look back as he entered the dining room, the doors closing behind him.
oOo
It wasn't the sound of a pin dropping, but a cough, that finally roused the men of Barrack 2.
"Blimey," Newkirk whispered. "All that, and you couldn't say one blooming word?"
LeBeau nodded. "Not a peep. But it was better that way. What can you say when you're in the presence of greatness?" He lowered his voice. "If only he'd really been that great."
"Did you get in much trouble with your dad?" Kinch asked.
The Frenchman shrugged. "Naw. He gave me another swat on my backside, but his heart wasn't really in it. I think he secretly envied me. I found out later he admired Lindbergh more than I did."
Olsen shifted in his bunk. "What about the girl?"
LeBeau shook his head. "I don't know. I never saw her again."
"Gee," Carter murmured. "That story sure beats my Ty Cobb one any day."
Hogan nodded. "He was the main reason I learned to fly; I wanted to see what he'd seen. Too bad he doesn't have any idea of what's really going on over here. I'd like to tell him a thing or two. Maybe that would straighten him out."
Schultz checked his watch and held up his hands. "Alright, everybody, lights out! The Kommandant will send me to the Russian Front if I leave them on a minute longer."
Newkirk got up and wrapped his arm around the guard. "Aw, c'mon Schultzie, just a few minutes more."
Schultz smiled. "Alright, if you let me finish telling my story. The Fuhrer ordered a salad with very light dressing…."
Newkirk ducked as the other men threw a barrage of dirty laundry and pillows at the guard beside him.
* Paris City hall.
AN: Does anyone know who watched LeBeau's uncle's truck for him?
AAN: Snooky raised a good point with her review and one I felt I have to address. Lindbergh was tolerant of fascism and antisemitism, which I shouldn't have ignored to begin with. That said, I couldn't bring myself to have the guys turn anti-Lindbergh, so I reached a compromise, which you probably saw with the new dialogue at the end. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the revised edition of this.