I own nothing, and have nothing but respect for the men of easy company, and all soldiers like them. This is not meant to cause offence in any way. It is based on the T.V portrayal of these men.
(oXo)
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, but love leaves a memory no one can steal -From a headstone in Ireland
Chapter one: An Unparalleled Grief
Couvent de la Mère Sainte Vierge - Janvier cinquième, 1945
Chère Renée,
Well sister, it has now been technically a year since you abandoned me to these merciless nuns. I shan't ever forgive you. I swear that these sweet brides of Christ get more and more dour each day. Sister Mary Bernard is the worst -she always looks like she just had to kiss a German's buttocks...and Dieu help the girl she catches wearing lip rouge. Well, thankfully they are not all so bad as that -Sister Bernadette is a forever a darling considering how much she can put up with me, and Sister Marie-Madeleine is also darling in how she always has us sing to forget our worries -they I think, haven't forgotten what it's like, being a young girl.
To be full of hope, and full of fear, and also the fear of hoping to much for things that may never be. They haven't forgotten I think, of what it is like to want to fuss over ones hair, and look pretty for a boy -not that there are any about here.
(Tell Papa not to worry Renée, I'm not talking about myself you know, only about the older girls, who cry themselves to sleep at night for want of a first kiss -and not because they are vain you see, but because they think they might die without getting one -poor Emilie is especially bad...there's a boy she loves, who she never told, and she doesn't have the slightest idea where he is or what happened to him.)
Sister Marie-Madeleine in particular is empathic to them, because she says it is life they want, not sin...is kissing really a sin Renée? The Sisters never really explain it to me whenever I asked them (I may be beginning to annoy them a bit I think -not that this bothers me terrible). All their answers make me terribly confessed. I for one don't think it is sin...after all, kissing is a way you tell someone you love them. So I have sympathy for the older girls to. It seems like such a terrible longing they have.
And the fact that we can still hear artillery fire sometimes really, really doesn't help Renée. It is downright terrifying and I don't know how the Américains can stand it. When ever it sounds too close for comfort, I run to Léa or Rachelle...I just cant help it. They are the only ones who are never irritated with me, nor see me a as a silly little goat.
I think they are simply the bravest girls ever, after you of course, because though they must be afraid -and since they are Jewish, they have more reason than any of us to be afraid should the Germans takeover the Convent- they rarely show it. I guess they figure it wouldn't do any good. Those sisters remind me of a psalm, gentle and strong. It's hard to remember that they are only sixteen. They remind me of you...I miss you Renée, so you better be taking good care of yourself along with your soldiers -so you can come and get me of course.
I would never forgive you otherwise, and Maman and Papa would never get over it - if you leave me here that is. Otherwise they would only have Marguerite at home...and you wouldn't be so cruel as that would you?
Yours, Gisèle
P.S. I hope your still wearing that blue handkerchief I gave you for your jour de naissance Renée, It looks simply smashing on you, just like any Hollywood star.
(oXo)
Closing her nearly-full diary with a satisfied sigh, the small-for-her-age thirteen year old promptly hopped off her ugly bed and padded her way out of the dormitory door; her destination being the convent's alter, and the little loose panel in which she stored her writing book. Now technically speaking, she probably wasn't suppose to be doing that, but what the Sisters didn't know, wouldn't kill them (and more importantly wouldn't make Sister Mary Bernard angry). The little girl shuddered. How that unfeeling, bitter woman could be both a nun and a nurse was beyond her -she must like seeing people in pain, the child reasoned. It was surely the only reason.
As she walked down the unlit hallway, the girl found herself distracted from her task by the large windows that aliened the right-side. Of course they were all cover in blackout sheets, but that didn't stop her little hand from reaching out, pulling one back, and sneaking a peek at the outside world.
The late evening sky was an pessimistic, unhopeful gray, broken only by the occasional streaks of mournful black which seemed to heralded in the coming night, and the battle and blood that undoubtedly would be spilled - heralding it in with joy, just like the Valkyries in the old stories Renée used to read to her, back before the world fell apart...
Shivering at the ghostly image she'd conjured, the girl pushed herself up on her tip-toes and rested her chin on the spine of her diary, hands tucked into the selves of her too large (and ugly) burgundy sweater. Her strawberry braids framed her still child-like face, which had prematurely lost it's infant fat -making her look both a year old and a year younger, depending on whom you asked. Her teeth began chewing her already shredded lips while her slivery-blue eyes grew rounder than a full moon.
Oh yes, Gisèle Lemaire could just picture the ancient host of female warriors siting up there in the towering Ardennes trees, with sharpened swords at their sides and shield on their laps; their beautiful faces -a thousand times more beautiful than Marlene Dietrich, or Ingrid Bergman, or any other Hollywood scarlet (she really shouldn't use that term, the Sisters wouldn't like it). Gisèle imagined them being classily indifferent to the men suffering on both sides of the battle -both Américain and German- as they picked and choose who would live, and who would die.
The girls had been hearing the artillery fire for days now. Days without any foreseeable end. For some, it had nearly driven them to the brink of madness, the idea that they could all be blown up when they were supposed to be safe...
For the past five years, the peaceful little Convent of la Mère Sainte Vierge had been a refuge for those in needed of it, it's wimpled stewardesses taking in and sheltering the poor wenches that had been refused by the rest of the world: from fleeing Belgium soldiers back in 1940, to resistance fighters to Jewish refugees in hiding throughout the Nazi's occupation...which technically specking, Gisèle didn't know about. Chough. Chough.
(-Well it was hardly Gisèle fault that she'd overheard Anna and Marie -or Léa and Rachelle, as it turned out- praying in their Jewish tongue, and put two and two together. Or that when she couldn't sleep one night, and walked around, she'd noticed men sneaking into the Convent, only to sneak out again. Somehow she doubted the nun's were taking gentlemen callers.)
But the most recent group to claim sanctuary here was the a handful of daughters from Bastogne, sent here by insightful parents (and stubborn sisters) who'd realized back in Décembre that a storm was coming, and reaching the point where there would soon be no escape...
(oXo)
Renée had put Gisèle on the last transport out before the town was besieged, over her little sister's furious protests that she could be a nurse for the soldiers as well -right along side her. She was old enough!
(Looking back, Gisèle could admit that she'd been a little stupid then.)
"Oh je vois," Renée had told her sarcastically, as she dragged Gisèle out their parents' door -where their poor Papa certainly had his hands full, with trying to comfort both Maman and their oldest, bedridden sister, Marguerite. "You think just because you've have lived three years passed ten, your capable of nursing hordes of dying men, oui?"
"Oui!" Gisèle had fiercely declared as she gripped the railing with both her hands, refusing to go. "Vive le libre Belgique!"
Her beautiful sister had snorted at that, in a most un-ladylike fashion, her lily-white brow furrowing as her pert nose (her "humble snub") scrunched up her face. "Vive le yourself you little fool," was her dry response as she pried her sister loose, before storming them down the street, Gisèle's unwilling packed bag clenched in her grip. "Our parents needed to know one of us girls is going to live through this."
Renée paused. "I need to know one of us is going to live through this. I...I wouldn't be able to do my work if I don't."
By this point, Gisèle had given up on belligerent defiance, and had been reduce to tears. "Plaire Renée, you -you can't just send me away."
"It is for your own good Gisèle Lemaire," Renée told her stoiticly, her grip on the younger girl's hand tighting with every step...and not only to keep her from escaping. "And you better behave yourself for the Sisters you petit diablotin. Or I'll have your hide."
By then they were in sight of the truck that was loading up the last few girls...and had the engine running.
The flame of hope had just come to life inside Gisèle when Renée gasped and took off running, her blond hair streaming behind her as they bolted down the snow covered road -quiet a feet, given that she was in heeled boots. "Wait! Wait!" Renée had cried desperately. "Plaire attendez un moment! Wait!"
The truck driver heard her -everyone heard her, Gisèle reflected with embarrassment- and all to soon, Renée and an another man was helping Gisèle up into the back. As she handed Gisèle her bag, she paused before stretching up to kiss the top of her head.
"Now you have your diary in there chéri," Renée informed her, while she bruised herself with adjusted Gisèle's cap, her coat, her scarf -even her braids, pushing them over the younger girl's shoulders before changing her mind, and pulling them back. "I want you to write a letter to me everyday for as long as your away d'accord? Everyday, me promets-tu?"
"...Je te promets," Gisèle managed to whisper back. In a quieter voice, she added, "-je t'aime."
Renée sucked in her breath at that, and was perfectly still for a moment before she nodded once, sternly, and offered up a wobbly smile. "I know. I know. Je t'aime trop petit. Never doubt that."
But now the truck had began to pull away. And soon Renée was just a speck in the distant.
"Adieu Gisèle, jusqu'à nous rencontrons à nouveau!"
Promise me your wear you handkerchief Renée! Please always wear your handkerchief!
"Je vais!..."
(oXo)
"...Gisèle? Gisèle, child, is that you?" a voice came from behind her. Jumping slightly, the girl spun around like a child with her hand in the cookie jar. And out of the darkness, Sister Bernadette materialize herself, her blue skirts filtering around her like the ocean waves.
"Gisèle, what are you doing here trop petit?" the good sister asked with concern, placing a mildly wrinkled hand on the her charge's too thin shoulder. "I've been looking everywhere for you. It's time for bed and evening prayers."
Bed? Evening prayers? Already? Gisèle felt herself sag a little. Time could sure fly when you were not having fun.
"Come along chéri," Sister Bernadette murmured, as she guided Gisèle back down the hallway. Spying the book the girl clutched in her hands, she smiled to herself -these young girls never failed to amuse her. "Would you like me hold on to that for you until morning? I know you don't like to hid it under your pillow like the other girls."
Gisèle hesitated only a moment before handing it over. "Merci Sister. But I beg you, please don't read it."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Sister Bernadette promised her solemnly as she took it. "It will be our secret."
(oXo)
"Watch, O Lord, with those who wake, or watch, or weep tonight, and give Your Angels and Saints charge over those who sleep. Tend Your sick ones, O Lord Christ. Rest Your weary ones. Bless Your dying ones. Soothe Your suffering ones-"
Are there any happy ones? Gisèle wondered somewhat drily as she knelt besides her bed in her nightgown, head dutifully bowed.
"Pity Your afflicted ones..." The Reverend Mother murmured on. "Shield Your joyous ones-"
Oh -there they are.
"And all for Your love's sake. Amen."
"Amen," muttered the twenty-some girls back piously, crossing themselves -even Léa and Rachelle and the one other Jewish girl there, to keep up appearances...which was strange since everyone knew who they were- before standing up and folding back their bed covers.
"Goodnight girls," The Reverend Mother told them gently.
"Goodnight Mother."
"Now all of you, bed!" Sister Mary Bernard snipped like an angry little dog. "Lights out!"
"Yes Sister."
With that the door close, and suddenly the girls were alone.
"Old hag," Léa whispered. "-vieille sorcière."
"Anna!" Rachelle scolded her twin from across the room.
"What? You know it true Marie."
"Yes, but you shouldn't say it," chestnut haired Emilie advised. "The woman had ears on the back of her head."
Gisèle giggled and she flopped over in bed. "That's the truth."
Léa grinned, and in the dark, her brown eyes sparkle. "See, Gisèle agrees with me."
"Look everyone, just go to sleep," a girl called Agnès muttered as she borrowed into the covers. "D'accord? Goodnight."
"Goodnight..." the room muttered back.
(oXo)
"Girls! Girls! Wake up!" Sister Bernadette shouted as she flew into the dormitory, like an arrow released from a bow. "Wake up!" the gentle sister positively squealed, as she when around turning on their lamps, shacking their shoulders.
"Humm- What -What?" they all muttered back, fists balling sleep from their eyes. "Sister what -what's going on?"
"Oh girls," Sister Bernadette breathed out in a gush, her hand pressed to her chest and -to their horror- tears gleaming behind her kind blue eyes. "Please get up quickly, quickly...their are soldiers here."
Soldiers!
That one word sent a lightening bolt threw the room, and out of the corner of her eye, Gisèle saw Rachelle's face drain of blood. Without an another word, they were all up, and struggling to dress.
"S-sister," Rachelle managed to ask as she pulled on her sweater and green coat. "Where should we hide?"
Sister Bernadette blinked at her, looking baffled. "Hide?"
Léa stared at her, open mouthed. "Yes, hide," she said slowly. "Like we've been doing for more than two years?"
"The other girls may not have to, but we certainly must, Sister," the Jewish girl called Sylvie/Estée agreed franticly.
Eyes widening with realization, Sister Bernadette now clasped her hand to her mouth. "Oh girls forgive me! I didn't mean to frighten you! It is not German soldiers here...it is the Américains."
And just like that, all movement stopped. And time stood still.
"A-A-Américains?" someone gasped out, voice every girls' stunned disbelief. "The Américains are here."
Sister Bernadette nodded gleefully. "Oui, Oui," she said happily. "Yes, the Américains...they have won victorie girls. The battle is won."
And now they were all squealing, and hugging. They all jumped for joy -and some of them weep with it too; heads buried in their hands. But not Gisèle; she and Léa and Agnès were in the middle of a whooping war dance.
They had won, they had won, they had won. The Américains had won, and they could all go home. And Renée would have her letters.
"Girls, girls," Sister Bernadette hushed them down. "I know you are all excited, but you must come with me. Quickly now."
They all blinked at that, confused. Then their eyes widen.
"Sister Bernadette, you want us to meet them?" Rachelle gasped. "Is that wise-"
"Who care's if it's wise?" Léa grinned, her joy making her bold. Tossing her dark head, she smiled wickedly at her twin. "I'll go and meet them. And I'll kiss everyone of them 'Merci'."
That caused all of them to burst into hysterically giggles. But being their warden, Sister Bernadette nipped that plan in the bud.
"No, no, Marie," she told Rachelle gently. And turned to Léa she said a little more firmly. "And no, Anna. We don't need you girls to meet them...We need you to sing for them. Sister Marie-Madeleine is waiting for you."
And for the first time since she had come through the door, Sister Bernadette's joy visible drained from her face, and took the rest of their happiness with it as it went.
"They are...in a bad way girls," the Sister explained softy. "The battle was...devastating for them."
The girls said nothing, and merely looked at her with wide eyes...they were just teenage girls -some of them barely so. They knew absolutely nothing about battles or their aftermath and...and thanks to these men, they would never have to know.
Léa stepped forward, and spoke for them all. "What must we do?"
(oXo)
"Plaisir d'amour...ne dure qu'un moment. Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie...Tu m'as quitté pour la belle Sylvie...Elle te quitte pour un autre amant..."
...Considering that it was their apparent job to cheer these troop up, Gisèle had to wonder why Sister Marie-Madeleine was having them sing a song about heartbreak of all things -about love gone bad. It wasn't what she would have chosen, that's for sure...not if she had haunted eyes like the men before them.
-But then again, none of the Américains likely understood French, and the song had a sweet, peaceful melody to it; dispute the subject matter. So perhaps it wasn't so bad. The soldiers in the pews seem to be enjoying it, and Gisèle supposed that was the important thing.
"Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment..." They sung out gently. "Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie..."
The pleasure of love last only for a moment. The grief of love last a life time.
...That line twisted her stomach. Somehow, in some way, Gisèle had the terrible feeling that every man here reflected that last line. The grief of love last a life time...it sounded so pretty...
Poets had often wrote about such things -singers often sung about it.
But these men...they embodied it. And there was nothing pretty about it. Nothing romantic. Their eyes were a verity of shapes and colors, but all of them reflected a pain, a grief, that none of them here had ever seen before. A grief for fallen friends, the absent of lost frères d'armes.
All the girls had been shocked -terribly so- at the state the soldiers had been in. Sister Bernadette hadn't exaggerated when she had said they were in a bad way (if anything she'd understated it.) They hadn't looked like a victorious army. They hadn't danced or cheered, or even really noticed them at all -just their singing. Barely. Most of them keep their heads down -lost in their own thoughts, or praying perhaps. All of them were quiet. In all honesty, they all more or lest resembled les morts ambulants. The walking dead.
It made Gisèle wonder what the losing army looked liked.
"Tant que cette...eau coulera doucement...vers ce ruisseau qui borde la prairie..."
Deep down, Gisèle wondered if this was really helping them. They all look so beyond their help.
"L'eau coule encore...Elle a changé pourtant..."
She hoped it was, really she did...even if it just a little. Even if it was just for one.
"Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment...Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie..."
And then the girls of Couvent de la Mère Sainte Vierge were done.
(oXo)
As they made their way down the choir steps and threw the pews in single-filed, the men blinked, and seem to realized for the first time that they were living breathing girls, and not part of the church décor.
"Beautiful, Sweethearts. Beautiful," a funny looking man with an animated face told them, clapping grandly with a full on grin.
"That was somthin' little ladies," a well built fair-haired man told them with a polite nod.
"You girls got to get yourselves ta Hollywood," a lanky man with a long face and brown hair commented with a wry grin. He was good looking, but it was the Étoile de David that he was twirling absently mindedly around his fingers that made Léa and Rachelle whole up the line to stare at him a bit (and cry a little, in the latter's case. It had been a while since they'd seen a fellow Jew outside their group; the rest having been deported from Belgium years ago -to the East, the Germans said. None of them had ever come back.)
...Anyhow, those were only a few of the compliments they received -not that they could understand a word being said to them, but still. It was nice. And what was nicer was the few that thanked them without spoken words, their appreciation shinning through their eyes, and barely-there smiles.
Like that one man over there, with the jet black hair, and blue-black eyes. The one who had a red cross on his arm. He said nothing, but his face reflected his enjoyment as he smiled kindly when they passed, and in his hands, he twirled something as well, like the Jew.
Only it wasn't a Étoile de David or a croix. No...what he had was made of cloth...a Catholic Scapulaire perhaps? Curious now, Gisèle stood on her toes to see better...she caught a glimpse of blue...and felt her blood freeze in her veins.
She came to a dead stop, and immediately brought all the girls behind her to a stop by default, each one crashing into the others ahead of her. "Gisèle!" Agnès hissed in a furious whisper out. "What are you doing?!"
"Oh Gisèle, now not the time to be silly," Emilie implored. "Keep going."
"Well, well Doc," the animated man drawled out. "Looks like you got yourself an admirer."
"No need to be jealous Luz."
"Ah shut it Marlark."
The rest of the men chuckled a little, light-heartedly. "Oh my God," Agnès muttered under her breath, her ears burning.
"Girls, what is going on?" Sister Marie-Madeleine asked, frowning as she came up to them. "Why have you stopped?"
"We haven't stopped Sister. Gisèle has!"
"Way to throw her off the cliff Agnès," Emilie murmured.
Sister Marie-Madeleine frowned again as she turned to face the culprit. "Gisèle? Do you care to explain-"
But the she was cut of by the girl stepping forward, out of line, towards the man. "Well look at her go!" one of the other solider laughed. "Kid's got guts."
"Brave little thing," his comrade agreed.
"Watch it Doc, I'll bet she's comin' to give you a kiss."
More laughter. But Gisèle was deaf to it all. All she heard was the blood pounding in her ears, mingled with Renée's last words to her.
"Adieu Gisèle, jusqu'à nous rencontrons à nouveau!"
Promise me your wear you handkerchief Renée! Please always wear your handkerchief!
"Je vais!..."
Renée's handkerchief...this solider had Renée's sky blue handkerchief -part of it anyways. It was fithly and tore...a-aand Renée had promised her that she'd wear it. That she'd always wear it, so why did this solider have it-
"Where did you get this?" she asked in a quiet voice, so quiet that when it was clear that the man hadn't heard her, she said it again -louder, and also pointing. "Où avez-vous cela...Where did you get that?!"
And all of a sudden, the laughter died away. "Gisèle!" Sister Marie-Madeleine gasped, reach for her, "What's gotten into you?"
But she had already moved beyond the nun's grip. She stood directly in front of the man, who eyes had gone wide by this point. He spoke French, Gisèle could tell. He understood her. Reaching out, she laid her hand on the handkerchief, and spoke again in a hollow voice.
"This was my sister's. Her name is Renée. This is her handkerchief...why do you have it? Pourquoi l'avez-vous? Why do you have it?"
Sister Marie-Madeleine was circling around the pews now to get to her. Sister Mary Bernard too, looking as mad as thunder. The man was staring at her, into her slivery-blue eyes that everyone said she shared with Renée. His mouth said nothing. But his eyes said it all. Renée was dead.
Her sister was dead.
And then the ground was rushing up to meet her.
...Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie...
The grief of love lasts a life time.
Reviews make me happy so tell me what you thought, and I'll update sooner.
Okay, so in real life, the Nurse Renee had a little sister called Gisèle who was sent away from Bastogne before the battle. And I got to thinking, What if she was one of the girls who sung for easy company? and she saw Eugene Roe holding what left of her sister's handkerchief? Do you want one more chapter, make this a two shot?
Was everyone in character.