Emile

Chapter 1

Emile spat in the dirt. Useless. All of them. Useless. What was the point of all this organizing. What they needed was some action. Get out there and do something. Kill some Germans or blow their camps. Action not talk. He spat again then looked over to the two German soldiers who stood talking by the road. He'd show them how it was supposed to be.

Emile had been a soldier in the Great War. He knew how to fight. When he had tried to enlist this time he was told he was too old. Too Old to fight for his country! How dare they even suggest such a thing. He had yelled at the young upstart who had told him that. Only his friend who had tried to enlist as well had held him back from hitting the snot-nosed kid. Then he heard that some men from town had decided to form a Resistance Cell. They would fight locally doing what ever they could to wreck havoc. That he could do. He could lead them. He was a leader and a fighter. They had had the audacity to laugh at his offer. Again too old. He knew the truth; they wanted the glory for themselves. They wanted to be the heroes. They thought they didn't need him but they were wrong. He didn't need them. He would show them how it was done.

Below him through the pines he could see where the road curved around to the bridge. There were two soldiers standing lazily in front of a barrier. Their uniforms, the hated grey, were ill fitting but somehow befitting the men who wore them. One stood smoking a cigarette and the other slouched against the bridge abutment cradling his weapon. The smoker consulted his watch and said something to his companion which Emile could not hear. The reply also went unheard. Well that would be their last, thought the angry French man. He scanned the hillside to see his best route.

His neighbour had been a grenadier during the Great War and had kept three of his weapons. Emile had waited until he was out of the house then had gone in and taken them. They were no use to him. He had lost his right arm to a blast just days before the armistice. Emile would throw them for him.

Picking his way carefully his descended the slope. He continued to watch the soldiers, stopping once when the dark one looked his way. He waited then proceeded when he looked away. Finally he was as close as he though he would get. He threw the grenade. It did not go as close as he hoped but it was still a blow for France. He ducked to avoid the blast but smiled into the dirt as it went off. It was a satisfying sound. He even felt the vibration as the ground shook. He waited a moment then raised his head over the log he had hidden behind to survey the results of his handiwork. One soldier lay sprawled on the road apparently lifeless, the other smaller man was hauling himself out of the ditch. Emile watched as he ran to his companion. Emile turned to retrace his steps. He had left his rifle up on top of the hill, fearing it would get tangled in the under brush as he descended the hill. He would get it then kill the other soldier. The satisfied smile on his face froze as he reached for his gun. A sharp pain at his neck stopped him as an arm reached around and took the gun. He was prodded down the hill with his own weapon. Not wanting to die yet he complied.

Once on the road he saw to his disappointment the downed soldier was sitting up though he looked the worse for wear. To his horror the man was being attended by a civilian. A traitor! A collaborator! Another civilian was crossing the bridge. He, a tall lean blond, carried a rifle as well.

The one behind Emile spoke but though he didn't understand German, he knew what was said wasn't in that language. The tall dark civilian tending the downed soldier turned to look his way. He must be the one in charge.

Emile snarled at him and swore in French, "Collaborator! May you rot in Hell!"

"Monsieur." The tall one rose and approached. "We are not collaborators" he said in French. "We were trying to fool the Germans to to get them to stop so we could kill them."

Emile looked at them again. Could they be telling the truth? He watched as the civilian that had come across the bridge looked up from where he was talking to the downed man. He was fair haired and certainly looked German. The tall one spoke like a native, a well cultured one at that. Emile had no use for the rich city people. They had always looked down on his kind. No he didn't like this bunch. He wasn't going to believe them either. He would watch and bide his time.

Again the man behind him spoke. The sound was soft and smooth. Definitely not German. Who were these people? One was city rich playing peasant from the way he was dressed. But the others?

The smaller soldier called to his co-conspirator. The accent was unmistakable. He was English. Were the others as well? With a frown he asked "Anglish?" Was it possible?

"Parle vous Anglais?" asked the tall blonde. Emile shook his head.

Emile hear a question from behind him, but not what was asked . The answer from the tall civilian, other than it had to do with "l'explosion" and "le Casino" did not sound encouraging.

Emile ducked as the tall man suddenly yelled and struck out at his head. It was then he realized the blow was to deflect the rifle butt aimed at his head. Still cringing from the threatened blow he turned to his assailant. Emile didn't know what was going on but he feared for his life when he saw the look of pure rage on the man's face. The angry man shook off the tall man's hand from the rifle butt then stepped back and aimed the weapon at Emile's chest. He growled something at him then stood watching him, his anger still evident.

From the corner of his eye he saw the English/German? soldier come over to where they stood. He was dirty and had small cuts on his face. He began talking to the tall aristocrat. From the expressions on their faces and the tones of voice, his actions had disrupted their plans. Emile was not sure if this was good or bad. Did he believe they were collaborators or Resistance fighters? The smaller man definitely sounded English. There was no way the Germans would let an Englishman enlist. But then if he was English, then why was he not in the Allied Army? Emile tried to puzzle it out but was getting nowhere.

The tall one gestured to his wrist and they suddenly sprang into action. The tall blonde ran back across the bridge disappearing up the road. The tall dark one motioned Emile to follow as the angry one who had captured him traded clothes with the wounded soldier.

Once they were away from the bridge Emile tried to find out what was going on. "So, my friend, who are you.?"

"That is not important. What we have to do is. Can you be trusted?"

Somewhat indignant he replied, "Me? I am a loyal Frenchman. They say I am too old but I can still fight." Then it dawned on him what he had done. "How is your friend? If I had known, I never would have done that. Please believe me."

Actor waited until they were in position to watch the road. Making sure the Frenchman was in front he told him, "We wait."

"Let me help. Please, to make up for hurting your friend." He pleaded. Then seeing as that was not working, he took a different tact, becoming defensive. "He was dressed as a German. You do that and you ask to be shot by a loyal Frenchman. I did what I thought was right. You cannot hold that against me."

"Monsieur, You must be quiet." The voice was low but the warning was clear.

Almost as a reflex he was about to refuse. He had hated being told what to do or not do for that matter. It flashed through his mind to offer his silence in exchange for information but the tall one seemed to read his mind, giving him a look and swinging the barrel of his pistol a little closer to his direction. The threat was received. Emile closed his mouth and watched the road. From their vantage point they could see up the road as well as back to the bridge. They were obviously lookouts. But for who or what? He waited.