MIRROR IMAGE
Chapter 1
Etienne Devereux ignored the war, except as he could personally gain from it. Cutting wood was a fool's game, he thought; no one was going to rebuild when the war could destroy it all again tomorrow. People picked up their own firewood. As for furniture, who had money to pay for it? So he waited as the Allies fought the Germans, and then he scavenged from the dead, stealing guns, ammunition, clothing and anything else he could profit from. He had even taken some of the clothing for himself. It is a risk, possibly being mistaken for a soldier by the wrong side, Etienne thought, but then so is starving or dying of exposure. Ainsi soit-il. i
He inspected the jacket he'd taken from the pack of an American soldat. It would do for this winter.
He'd nearly been caught twice, once by Germans and once by outraged British troops who pursued him as far into the forest they dared. But he had worked and played here since childhood, for roughly thirty years. The scavenger knew byways and paths that no one else had yet seen. Unless he caught a bullet, he was safe.
Devereux vacillated between returning to his cabin or towards the shooting he had heard earlier to search for any pickings. To go home meant listening to the whining of his brat. He shrugged. Then I will go see what I can find. Most likely Boche, since they are retreating. It would not be as good as the better-off Americans, Canadians or British, but there were always souvenirs, and the Allied soldiers would buy them.
He pulled his beret from his shoulder and put it on, and adjusted his eyepatch. Yes, war is a good thing, he decided, as he limped confidently through the forest.
xxx
Caje staggered in the mud; it had finally stopped raining, but the going was treacherous and his injured leg was no help. It was hard to believe that only a little over two hours ago, he had been sitting with his squad mates, admonishing them to rest. Next time, take your own advice! He'd lost a lot of blood and felt as if he'd been running for days. He blinked; the field bandage he had over his eye and around his head was sodden. The scout pressed it against his forehead, trying to drain some of the moisture out, and was rewarded with more blurred vision, as the water poured into his good eye.
Hanley had sent him and Pascow, the Second Squad scout, out to retrieve film and the pilot, if he was still alive, from a downed American spy plane. Caje had survived, at the cost of Pascow's life. It was not the first time it had happened, but he thought he would never adjust to the idea that he was alive only because someone else died helping him. Sarge would tell him that it happened, and that he had to put it aside and go on. He had always done so, but he was afraid that one day he would go back and find the things he put aside too much for him to bear.
The forest was thinning ahead. Caje mentally examined Hanley's map. He thought he might not be far from a road that would take him back to the village he'd recently left and the platoon CP. He entered the clearing, only to be challenged by the voice of a child.
[ Papa? ]
Lightheaded, he spun around and nearly fell. There was a girl of about seven staring at him. Caje shook his head.
[ No. Not your father. ]
[ But you look like my papa! He went out today to find things and he hasn't come back.]
She looked down sadly. [ Did you see someone who looked like you? ]
Caje was ready to leave. [ I'm sorry. I didn't see anyone. I have to go. ] He stopped as he heard the sound of voices – German voices – between him and the road. I'm so tired – if only I could think!
The little girl took his hand. [ Come with me. I will hide you from the Boche. I will tell them you are my papa. ]
For a second, Caje hesitated. Then he realized that in his current condition, he couldn't outrun this little girl, much less a German squad. He nodded. [ Very well, let's go. ]
Xxx
Devereux had been right. There were remnants of a unit of Germans; they had probably been at platoon strength when they started out. He began rummaging through the packs and pockets of the dead, mostly looking for tobacco, for which he had a ready market, with people too desperate for it to ask any questions. Further, this had been an SS unit, so there would likely be decorated SS '33 and '36 daggers, which fetched a big price from Allied soldiers.
There was a groan from one of the soldiers near him. Alarmed, he looked for the Boche who had made the sound. Survivors were not good - survivors meant that other troops would be coming for them.
There! He spotted a young German, no more than seventeen, perhaps; he was badly wounded. The soldier looked at him in bewilderment and fear. He must think I am Maquis, here to dispose of him. Well, he's half-right. He took one of the daggers he'd found and advanced on the young man, who struggled to back away, correctly reading his death sentence in the other's eyes.
The scavenger sharply drew the dagger across the German's throat and turned his back on his death throes, unconcerned. He didn't see the Boche squad come into the clearing until they began to fire at him. He turned tail and ran as best he could, taking advantage of his intimate knowledge of the forest to escape, at least for now.
But Oberleutnant Franz Krieger had seen and marked him, seen what he had done to a helpless man. Krieger had seen this scavenger before. He had no intention of letting him escape this time. [ Advance! His home cannot be far. A snake like that will surely go to ground. Move! ]
xxx
Caje knew he was tired and unwell, but when they arrived at the little girl's home, he thought he must be worse than he realized. Walking into the cabin was like entering a bizarre, oddly-stocked PX; there were uniform parts everywhere, packages of cigarettes, chocolate bars, pouches and ration packs. A smoldering anger replaced the Cajun's confusion, as he realized what the source of all this must be. He turned on the little girl.
[ Where does this come from? ]
[ Papa finds it. ]
[ Finds it? Finds it! Where? ]
She shrugged. [ I don't know. He goes out for hours and sometimes days and brings things back. ]
[ Your father is only one step better than a grave robber! ] Caje growled.
For a moment, she clearly didn't understand. Then, the little girl looked around at the clothes and other items as if she'd never seen them before, horror slowly dawning in her eyes.
[ Papa takes these things from dead soldiers? ]
Slowly, Caje realized that the little girl had no idea of where her father was getting the items crowding the cabin; he was horrified. He hadn't meant to take his anger out on her. Cette pauvre petite – what did I do?
She looked at the scout with eyes filled with tears. [ I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't know! ]
He knelt by her and gently hugged her to him. [ It's all right. It's not your fault. I shouldn't have yelled at you. ]
She pulled away and nodded sadly. She looked him in the face. [ You look just like Papa, but you aren't like him at all, are you? ]
Caje closed his eyes and shook his head. That was a mistake - it reminded him that the area around his eye was injured and that he had a nasty headache.
[ The Boche will come soon! ] She supported him as best she could while he struggled to his feet. [ Go in here. ] She indicated the small room to one side of the cabin. [ You should change into Papa's things. You have blood on you. And your gun! Hurry! ]
She halted and turned back to him, with a sudden smile, charming for such a young girl. [ Monsieur, I think if you will pretend to be my father, you should know my name. ]
[ Yes, that would be a good idea. ] Caje replied dryly.
[ I am Amélie Devereux. ]
[ My name is Paul LeMay, but my friends call me Caje. ]
i So be it
