Le 14 juillet (14th of July) marks the date the Bastille prison fell, and helped jump-start the French revolution. During World War II, German troops walked the streets of occupied Paris, in place of the commemorative military parade that had always celebrated Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.

The title is a reference to the John Donne poem.

If a Clod Be Washed Away

Le 14 juillet, 1943 - The 14th of July, 1943

"Sorry, mate."

Newkirk tried to catch his eye, but LeBeau just pushed past, head down. The Frenchman would walk to the western side of the camp now, and sit with his back to the last of the barracks. Facing west.

Facing home.

They wouldn't see him again till the evening role call.

O O O

Sorry didn't help.

It never helped.

If there were any words to make things better, Newkirk was unable to find them, and definitely incapable of expressing them.

There was a sour ache that clenched inside his stomach. 'I hurt too,' Newkirk wanted to say.

He'd tried it once, but it only made things worse.

Nothing ever came out the way he wanted it to. He couldn't explain what he meant.

Newkirk didn't have the words. So this is what he didn't say.

O O O

I'm sorry you hurt. I'm so, ruddy sorry terrible things happen in this world. That evil men walk the streets you love so much. That things have been broken that can't ever be fixed.

I'm sorry I still have a home, LeBeau. That even if it's cinder and rubble, it's still free. I'm sorry the others have a whole ocean to protect them from a madman like Hitler. That we were lucky, and you weren't.

It makes me so bloody angry. You don't know how much I wish I could make them pay, make them feel that fear, that painful, hollowing loss. Hit them till they hurt as bad as you do. Even if it doesn't fix anything.

If I were like you, mate: hanging out my emotions like bunting, (My ears are turning pink, just thinking about it) I would cry. I honestly would. If I started, I'd probably never stop. Because it's wrong. It's not right. So many brave men and women are hurting today. The world is a horrible place.

That's what I mean when I say that it hurts me too.

Still, we both know I'll never be able to line up my thoughts and put them into words, and it wouldn't help, even if I did. Because it's not the same. It's not my pain, and I can never understand what it's really like.

I wish I could, LeBeau.

But it's not about me. This is about you.

You feel alone.

And I can't help.