CHAPTER TWELVE
The liberation of Paris,August 1944
Weeks after, Charles Miller remembered the Parade of the Free French Army on 25 August 1944.
He had stood in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées watching the procession. The noise was thunderous as engines roared above the din of screaming people waving thousands of tricolors that swayed in the light afternoon breeze.
Truck after truck followed by gun carriages, tanks with long cannon and marching soldiers filled the avenue in a mile long procession. Tens of thousands of people - citizens of Paris, visitors to the city, the American and British soldiers who had formed a formidable offensive against the Germans - had come to witness the celebration of the liberation of France. Once Paris fell, with the exception of a few towns, it was all over for the Oppressor. Katrine had been right when she'd told him that while France's government had surrendered to the Germans, her people never did. They'd come to the Champs-Élysées to rejoice in the overthrowing of the shackles that had bound them to an ideology in direct opposition to the very ideals of France - liberty, equality, fraternity.
Charles had glanced down the avenue, his eyes fixed on a building in the distance. Like a watchful angel, the magnificent Arc de Triomphe rose in the boulevard. A historic landmark he had dreamed of visiting one day, though never through the circumstance of war. This was Paris, liberated from the Germans. While many buildings were destroyed, the triumphal arch remained untouched. It had been built as a monument to France's greatest military moments in history. It honoured all who had fought with distinction and valour and died heroically during its Revolution and the Napoleonic wars.
Captain Miller had thought how appropriate it was that the names of their victories and their noble generals had been inscribed on the inner and outer walls of the Arc de Triomphe. The march had marked the celebration of the liberation of France as General Charles de Gaulle assumed leadership of the new provisional government. Would De Gaulle's name be inscribed on the walls of the Arc de Triomphe? he'd wondered. Would the Battle for Paris be the latest victory inscribed there as well?
The noise of the procession and the screaming populace was deafening. A few of his men had stood next to him, waving as the trucks and soldiers passed them. It was a glorious day, the bright sunshine infecting the people with boisterous laughter, as they hugged and kissed each other in the streets. He'd glanced at Linklater and Compton. They had been unusually quiet while the rest of his platoon had joined in the hilarity that marked the jubilation in the city. He hadn't felt like rejoicing because he'd lost a good many men, his company reduced to almost two thirds. He had himself been injured. As if that thought reminded him of the bullet wound, he'd touched his right arm gingerly where a dressing covered his stitched wound.
Charlie had thought how quickly the people of Paris had settled into peace, their faces filled with relief, their expressions without the caution he knew they'd had to exercise whenever they passed Germans in the streets, restaurants, on bridges or public buildings. Paris had celebrated while the 4th Infantry Division had travelled further east to liberate the last of the French cities and towns. It was the events that followed that had made him reconsider that what they witnessed was not one of France's finest moments.
Free France indeed. Joyous celebration that threatened to overflow into the river Seine.
It had not been like that weeks ago.
Paris bleeding, Paris restored, Paris turning its anger away from the pain of Oppression to another objective.
The Allied forces were powerless to prevent what happened after the liberation.
US offensives 19 - 25 July - Paris 1944
"Fire!" he shouted as they ran down one of the streets where Germans poured through alleyways, firing as they saw American soldiers bearing down on them. Charlie ran into a doorway, waving with his hand to Linklater and Compton to do the same on the opposite side of the street. Then they calmly lined up their scopes, aiming at the first Germans whose heads peeped round a corner. While they covered the first burst, his men ran and fired at will. Then one of them went down.
"Cover me!" Charlie shouted at Linklater. Then he dived into the line of fire to drag the fallen comrade into a doorway. It was Baxter, radioman and guitarist. Blood spurted from a wound in his chest.
"Captain..."
Baxter tried to breathe. His eyes rolled and he shuddered violently.
"Stay with me, Baxter. Stay with me!" he cried. Around him firing continued.
"Captain...it was...an honour...serving...with you..."
"Goddammit, man, fight! Don't - you - go - dying - on - me!"
But somewhere in his heart, Miller knew Baxter was not going to make it. The sergeant's eyes began to glaze, the shudders subsiding until the infantryman became still, staring with dead eyes at Miller. With an agonised cry, Miller hauled the soldier into his arms and rocked for a few moments, feeling his eyes sting with tears. Then he gently lay Baxter down. The litter bearers would arrive soon to prepare the body for burial and collect the valuables Baxter carried on his person. But first Miller bent again to close Baxter's eyes. He gave a quiet sob before rushing up, firing his rifle as he ran, hitting every German who came within his angered view.
"Sons-of-bitches!"
"Captain! Watch out!" Compton shouted as three Germans suddenly popped out from behind a thick hedge.
Miller had seen them already and fired three quick shots in succession before the soldiers had time to lift their rifles. Planes overhead dropped bombs, filling the hot summer sky with smoke that mushroomed above the buildings. Allied tanks grunted heavily as they rolled down the road. Miller waved again to his men to brace themselves against the walls of the buildings as the first tank fired at its target - a low grumbling German panzer. A loud boom! The panzer lifted half off the ground. Just then the hatch opened, the Germans trying to get out of the burning vehicle. Miller saw his chance, took a grenade and pulled the pin, tossing the live fire directly into the cabin of the panzer.
So they fought their way down the road, until they reached a small square where a group of Germans were holding off insistent and determined firing from platoon B, Davis's men. Suddenly another group of soldiers brought up the rear of the enemy fire. This time Miller screamed at his men to fire, closing in as they ran towards the Krauts. He saw three or four of his men go down, inciting him further as he reached the first German soldier, grabbing him in a vice grip round his neck, twisting it so violently that the soldier was dead by the time he hit the ground. Miller had already unsheathed his dagger as he ran towards the next foot soldier. Before the soldier could fire, Miller lunged for him and in one swift movement slashed his throat.
He noticed out of the corner of his eye his men engaged in hand-to-hand combat, killing the enemy with ease.
By now only a few Germans were left in that part of the road, while the Allied tank had rolled further to sow destruction in other roads where the enemy lurked. The few Germans left dropped their weapons when they realised they were outnumbered, their comrades killed like flies. They surrendered, their hands high above their heads.
"Hold your fire!" he shouted at his soldiers when he saw that the Germans had capitulated. His men deftly disarmed all of them. They knew the protocols with regard to the prisoners of war. During this short lull in the immediate fighting, Miller took his chance and ran back to where four of his men had fallen.
He'd already lost Ian Baxter earlier. He saw Davis bending near one of them. The others had been pulled out of the road and were lying on the sidewalk.
"I'm sorry, Captain," Davis said as he shook his head. "Wainwright's dead, sir. So are Ellington, Masters and Higgins."
Miller nodded, feeling the sting in his eyes again. They were brave fighters, his best men of the 10th regiment. Wainwright would have been the next Caruso. The litter bearers were arriving now that the area had been secured by the Allied forces. He bent low next to the bodies of the four men and closed his eyes.
God, be with their families...
Ellington, like Davis, was married with two kids.
Captain Miller acknowledged the litter bearers as they began lifting the bodies of his soldiers. There was nothing they could do for the fallen now except to honour them with the final dignity of a burial.
"We have to go."
He and Davis ran down the road to join the rest of their men. Further and further they advanced towards the Seine where heavy fighting occurred between the Free French Army and the German battalions who seemed to pour into the streets in their hundreds.
"This way!" he ordered as Longman, Linklater and Compton joined them. Miller had seen the crossing where Germans were holding off the Allied Forces. Men from his division's 2nd battalion were trying to capture the bridge and secure the bridgehead. His company were spread out with only his trusted snipers following him. They ran towards the embankment, a solid wall a few feet high, behind which they could crouch and carefully take aim.
"Take out any Kraut whose face you see on the opposite bank. He just peeps, you fire! Longman and Davis, you aim for those on the left flank of the bank. Compton and I will target the right and anything moving in the middle!"
"Yes, Captain!" they chorused.
He lined up his scope. Germans rushed forward from the other side, falling back as bullets hit them. He'd drilled his men to aim for those the other fighters wouldn't be able to see. They posed the greatest danger.
They have snipers, we have better snipers...
"Now!"
He fired shot after shot as an enemy face appeared in his scope. Next to him Compton was doing the same. They watched the Germans fall, the men of the 10th advancing inch by inch across the bridge, shooting their way through the barricades erected by the Krauts. Fierce hand-to-hand combat ensued. Miller indicated his team should join the rest of the regiment. Quickly they ran to the bridge, firing at targets on the other side. Now the French Army could advance once the bridgehead had been cleared.
"Captain," Compton shouted, "the Germans are retreating!"
"We still need to push ahead!"
Just as they reached the opposite bank, Miller looked back to see the advancing French troops. Compton was behind him. When he turned to face the retreating Germans again, Compton yelled.
"Captain! Captain! Watch out!"
He saw the German too late. Just as he turned, a bullet hit him, flinging him back at least two paces. A second shot struck his helmet before skidding off, causing a blinding flash. Miller gave a cry of alarm as his right upper arm went suddenly lame, his rifle dropping uselessly from his hand. Compton fired at the same time and killed the German. Blood began flowing from the wound. When Davis reached him, he used his free arm and grabbed the lieutenant's jacket front.
"Carry on, Davis! It's only a flesh wound. Bullet went right through, missed the bone by maybe half an inch. I'll survive."
"But, Captain," Longman now joined in while Compton covered them, firing whenever he saw the familiar helmet of the German soldiers, "you are injured. A bullet ricocheted off your helmet, for heaven's sake! We cannot leave you here!"
"You go on, you hear me? That's an order!"
Three concerned faces stared at him. Davis hesitated only a moment, then he pulled the other two up, much to Compton's consternation.
"Captain!"
"Go! Go!"
"Yes, sir, Captain, sir!" they chorused, saluting as they ran off in the direction of the fighting that seemed to have died down somewhat.
Miller groaned as the pain lanced through his arm in earnest. He felt like he had been shot in the head too, knowing that the bullet had bounced off his helmet. He got up slowly and slung his rifle over his shoulder, then retraced his steps across the bridge, heading for the medical tents. He clutched his injured arm to try and stop the flow of blood. A lancing pain slashed through his head. He felt dizzy but managed to keep his eyes open. If any German appeared suddenly in front of him, he'd break the man's neck, the pain in his arm be damned. So he trudged along, the medics suddenly very far away. He kept moving, down the same road they'd come up where four of his men had died. In the distance, on what looked like an open field, he saw the Red Cross trucks. Miller groaned, unable to understand how he could have so much pain or have lost so much blood. It was streaming over the fingers that clutched the injured arm.
When he was about fifty yards away, he stood still, the pain excruciating, his head about to burst open, but he grit his teeth. He saw a medic run towards him. His heart thudded as he stumbled drunkenly forward and sank to his knees. Then he keeled over, lost in the mists of oblivion.
He dreamed of Katrine, her face merging into the clouds that billowed overhead. She smiled at him, then seemed to tell him something. He tried to discern the formation of words from her lips. "Did you read my letter?" He frowned heavily, trying to remember something, like a hand held out to him with a white object. He shook his head, unable to connect her question to a letter he was supposed to have read. He gasped for breath when her expression changed to sorrow. No...no...please do not be sad. I never wish to hurt you... He tried to think of a letter, burrowing in his memory for a sign, any trigger that might point to an answer.
Maybe he wasn't dreaming, then. He was asleep, and in his sleep-wake state the voice of Katrine was real. He frowned, the thinking exhausting him. It hurt to dig deeper into his consciousness but he persevered. It would help him to wake up.
Then, like an apparition, a soldier appeared in front of him. Where were they standing? Think. Think! Bright sunshine, soldiers standing around, talking, laughing. The road between St. Clair and Paris? A short stop for the soldiers to relieve themselves, to take refreshments. Yes, that was it!
The soldier looked nervous, scared. Charles remembered he was riding the very last gun carriage out of St. Clair.
"Captain?"
He'd looked at the fresh-faced young private and frowned.
"What is it, Riley?" The soldier looked very uneasy.
Riley proffered a white envelope with a shaking hand, then stepped back quickly and saluted the moment he took it from the soldier.
"Who - ?" he started.
Riley seemed to have found his voice.
"Mme Du Pléssis gave it to me, Captain. She was the last person standing near the fountain when we left. She asked me to give it to you once we travelled a good distance from St. Clair. You have to read it when you reach Paris..." Then Riley dissolved into the clouds that carried Katrine's face.
Charlie looked at the writing on the envelope. Beautiful cursive strokes with long sweeps on the -m- in his last name.
"Katrine..." he cried her name in his sleep-wake state. He'd put the letter along with the others between the pages of Caesar's Gallic Wars.
Only then he realised he'd never read her letter. He tried to touch his left top pocket, feeling for his little book. He must read her letter. Must read...
"Captain..."
A voice, strong, imposing. He struggled to open his eyes, to look at the owner of the commanding voice.
"Open your eyes, Captain Miller. You've slept long enough!"
Miller's eyes flew open suddenly. An officer was seated on a camp chair, looking down at him. Charlie kept staring, his heart skipping a beat.
A helmet with three stars. A riding crop pressed against his neck. A face that looked stern, though the eyes held something like...admiration? Charlie raised himself, groaning as he tried to sit up on the cot. Finally he managed to stand. The officer also stood up. Charlie recognised him instantly. He'd been following every single campaign of this man since his Academy days, had studied his Africa Campaign at length, had dreamt of being part of the superlative Third Army.
"General Patton, sir!"
Charlie saluted with his left hand, his right arm encumbered by bandages and a sling.
"That's okay, son. We are war animals, you and I. "
Charlie swallowed with difficulty. "Sir, it is an honour to serve with you."
"That is why I am here, Captain. You have received a commendation. What you have done in St. Clair and here, securing the bridgehead for the French armed forces and the 5th Infantry to advance into enemy territory, is one hundred percent praiseworthy. We have saved France, but don't let the goddam French hear you say that!"
Charlie suppressed the urge to smile. He knew the US Armed Forces and the British 1st Infantry Division would have secured all strategic areas, so the French Forces could basically just do mop up operations.
"General, I - thank you."
"The medics are thinking of sending you home. Detroit, is that it? Beautiful lake there...St. Clair."
"No!"
"Captain, a bullet bounced off your helmet. You suffered a concussion. You were unconscious for two days. Your arm needs to heal. Your body is pockmarked with the scars of old bullet wounds. Don't you - "
Charlie felt so aggrieved that he straightened up, realising belatedly he was without his boots. He saluted again.
"Captain Charles Miller, reporting for duty, sir!"
The general's eyes focused on him in a piercing, contemplative gaze. Slowly his face broke into a smile.
"That's what I like about my soldiers, Captain! Never give up! I'm proud to have the Red Diamonds in my army. Now, you go and kill those sons-of-bitches, Miller, when your arm has healed. Report for duty on September 7. My aide will give you the coordinates."
"Thank you, sir!" Charlie said, glad he wasn't going home.
"Miller..."
"Yes, sir?"
General Patton smiled, tapped Charlie on the shoulder with his riding crop.
"You remind me of me!"
St. Clair
31 July 1944
Dear Charles
I was too afraid, I think, to speak to you of my feelings. When you left, I felt alone again. You did not say goodbye to me and all I could hope as a goodbye was your salute. You told me to read your letter only after you had left St. Clair, and while writing this one, I am still in the dark as to the content of it.
I wanted to tell you so badly of my feelings for you. Yet I know that you have always been truthful about the risks of being in the army, being on active service. You fear you will not make it through this war. I tell you once again that you will! But what then of me? Of us?
When I met Joseph, we were both very young and so in love. I thought that our love would last forever, that what we shared was unique! Never for one moment when Joseph was alive did I think there could be anyone else for me. How wrong I was! Death and separation can dim those feelings, as you yourself have discovered.
I did not think I would ever tell another man that I love him.
I love you, Charles.
Although we have known each other such a precious short time,I can tell you I have not felt this way since Joseph. He will always be in a corner of my heart, as the father of our daughter. But life, Charles, is for the living. Joseph would have been the first person to tell me that.
Knowing how dangerous your path forward would be, my feelings for you will remain unchanged. Whatever happens, I will love you even if we are separated by great distances, by death, by injury.
You are entering Paris and will [I am convinced!] liberate the city and the country I love so dearly.
I am thinking of returning to Paris. I will be occupied mainly with the restoration of art works belonging to our people.It will keep me busy, keep my mind off missing Célestine too much.
I will know through radio communication when Paris will be free. I will then return home, my love. If you are still in the city, here is my address - 47 Rue Lion,Saint Germain. A neighbour at number 49 is in possession of my front door key. Feel free to enter my home even if I'm not there! I am of course hoping, yes! I have renewed hope in life now, that our paths will cross again. I know they will! I would love to see you before you leave on your next assignment after Paris.
Will you do so, for me, please?
All my love
Katrine
In the hastily erected barracks - an old school building - Charlie gave a deep sigh as he folded the letter again. Katrine had not read his letter when she had written this one. He had declared his love in his and now Katrine had declared her love for him. He felt the joy surge like a wildfire through him. He lay in a darkened, partitioned area in a large room against the pillow and closed his eyes. Katrine was worried about him but also strong and courageous, ready to face new adversities.
He felt in his bones that the war would be over in a matter of months. Before he could even allow himself to ponder on the end of the war, he would visit Katrine's home as soon as he was able to although he didn't think that she would be in Paris yet. By this time she would probably have received intelligence about the liberation of the city.
There was a soft knock on his door.
"Come."
Compton peeped through the door once he'd opened it.
"How are you feeling, Cappy?"
"Just a superficial wound, Compton."
"Captain! You were concussed! You were out cold for two days! The medics told us. Boy, that helmet sure stopped the bouncing bullet! I worry about you, you know?"
Miller smiled. It was more like he was perpetually worried about Compton! Before he could reply, Linklater, Longman and Davis entered the room. Charlie quickly slipped the letter in its envelope and back between the pages of Caesar's Gallic Wars.
"That be the letter Riley hand delivered to you, Cappy?" Linklater asked, his unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. "Boy, was he shaking in his boots having to face you!"
"None of your business, Linklater. Now, why are you here?"
"That old fart General - "
"Patton."
"Yes, Patton, told us we should join the people lining the champ - champ - "
"Champs-Élysées," Davis corrected him.
"Yes. That. You coming, Captain?" Longman asked.
"Well, of course. I wouldn't miss the procession for the world."
And Miller remembered Patton's words, that the French Army was not too happy that the Allied Forces had routed the enemy in Paris, had set the liberation of France in motion. No wonder they were to be spectators only at the procession down the Champs-Élysées.
It was the morning after the procession of the French Army that the city of Paris woke up and donned the cloak of self-righteous outrage.
Charlie had gotten up, shaved, fixed the bandage on his arm and marched off to the canteen to eat some steaming thick porridge concocted by their mess hall sergeant. He was on his second mug of tea when Davis, Longman, Linklater, Compton and two young privates, Frazier Riley who'd been so scared of him, and Pfc Phillip Thompson, joined him. They seemed to have eaten already or they were eating in sidewalk cafes. Only Davis saluted him, something unnoticed by the others.
"We're hitting the streets this morning, Cappy. You're coming?"
"A dog would have barked, Longman!" Miller said without looking up from his mug.
Longman jumped up, followed by the others, saluting.
"Good morning, Captain, sir!"
"Good morning. At ease before you all sprain something."
"Yes, sir!"
When they were seated, Longman persisted, "Well, are you coming?"
"I'll see. Have to take another injection and clean the wound."
"I'll take that as a yes, Captain," Davis said, smiling.
"Give me an hour."
"Thank you, Cappy!" crowed Compton. "Boy, I'm going up the Eiffel Tower today, and row on the river. Say, Cappy, didn't you row for the University of Washington?"
"I did. No more talk of rowing, guys. One hour, outside the building."
Miller finished his tea in silence while the others kept up an incessant chatter, mostly about meeting French girls in the streets and practice saying "Bonjour". It might be a good idea to walk around the city, then hire cycles when they got tired of walking. The Red Diamonds would be leaving the next morning, the badly injured going home and those, like him, given extended leave until they recovered enough to rejoin their units.
An hour later, Charlie stood outside the entrance of their temporary barracks. This time he wore his garrison cap, with a new uniform and his boots. He'd been given two injections and a fresh dressing put on his arm. He felt good, without pain, and the headache he'd had after he'd been shot had dissipated. Soon he was joined by Davis and the others. They noticed how other groups of soldiers were also making their way to the centre of the city, the amusement centres, galleries, famous buildings, cathedrals, the Eiffel Tower, the River Seine, the proliferation of cafes, restaurants and boulangeries.
"What are you going to do when the war is over, Captain?" Robert asked. The others craned their necks suddenly to hear his answer. Miller ignored their curious glances.
"Yeah, Captain. You're going to row again?"
He'd thought of rowing, but that would be simply a pastime, teaching Evan, little Charlie and Winonah to row on Lake St. Clair. He and Edward would go out on the water if they all got together in Detroit. He thought of Katrine and everything that still seemed to be hanging in the air. But he had always known he'd be teaching.
"Pursue my doctoral studies and teach," he said finally. He heard Linklater whistling through his teeth.
"Boy, you are a learned man, Cappy!"
Charlie smiled. Both he and Edward had always buried themselves in books. He saw himself teaching at West Point or at one of the other universities. He'd be based in the United States. He thought of Robert Davis who'd expected Brigitte to leave France and live in America with him. Could he expect the same of Katrine? Would she leave France to be with him? Would he leave America to be with her? He'd developed a headache just thinking about her and the new, if tentative problems that seemed to suddenly raise their heads.
"What about you, Davis? You have a wife and kids."
"Still would like to be a design engineer."
"And build them rockets and fast airplanes? Maybe one of them flying saucers?"
Miller and Davis laughed out loud at Compton's expression.
"Yeah! You're right, man. What about you guys?"
"Me?" Compton answered, "I'm picking up where me daddy left off on our farm in Iowa. Been in me bones, Lieutenant. Always wanted to walk in wide open spaces. Yeah, that's me, after the goddam war."
"And I - " Linklater began when he stopped abruptly.
They were almost near the Champs-Élysées when they saw a commotion in one of the roads leading off the boulevard. Riley and Thompson rushed forward, but Miller called them back.
"It might not be our business, boys. Let's just walk naturally. It could be a family feud and for that they have their police, okay?"
But it seemed to them more than a family feud. Women were dragged screaming to the middle of the circle that had formed. People shouted, hissed, cursed in what sounded to them very offensive language. Even as they moved in the direction of the noise, more curious people scurried forward, joining in the cacophony that rose in the mid-morning sky.
"Boys..."
"We know, Captain. It's St. Clair all over."
Charlie turned ice-cold at the realisation of what they were about to witness. They approached the mob which seemed to be growing by the minute. Most of the screams came from those standing near the middle. In the wide open doorway they saw three women sitting on stools. Next to them were other women waiting quietly in line, their heads bent, though some of the mob spat at them. Men were shaving the women's heads in rough, vicious, elongated furrows. The first woman screamed when her skin resisted the blades and a cut appeared. One of the women waiting her turn was pregnant. She was being pushed and pulled by other angry women who slapped her belly.
"A German's baby! She should kill it! Shame! Whore!"
"No, goddamit!" cried Linklater who had protected Sandrine Desmarais from just such a fate. He pushed his way through, his action followed by the others. Miller barged through, knocking people off their feet. He rued that for once they weren't carrying their rifles. Before he could reach the woman who was injured, a Frenchman with a rifle blocked his way. He looked arrogant, ready to stop anyone from interfering.
"They are guilty of horizontal collaboration! They must be punished!" he yelled.
He pushed Miller roughly back against the first line of the human barricade. Charlie swore so inelegantly that Davis shouted, "Captain!" before he tried again to push forward. This time he was beaten back with the butt of the Frenchman's rifle. Charlie staggered back, only realising belatedly that the Frenchman carried some sort of badge on his arm. A member of the Resistance. Davis and the others were also prevented from making any move to assist the victims. Women in the crowd hissed and swore in their language, pointing crooked fingers at the hapless girls who were being shorn like sheep.
"You bunch of bloody bastards!" cried Compton.
One or two of the girls sat very still, afraid to move lest they incur severe cuts in their skin. Men fondled them, other women reached for the girl who looked to be about eighteen, weeping as they lifted her dress and roughly penetrated her private parts.
Charlie felt like murdering someone as he witnessed the young girl's humiliation. What had they done but fall in love, some of them? He tried pushing again to reach the doorway, but was held back.
"They are not goddam sheep!" Compton shouted.
"Shut up!" one of the women in the crowd shouted. "They are whores! Traitors!"
Then the crowd began to chant the word "whore" over and over, as if in a soporific trance. Miller and his men watched helplessly as the men shaved the women in such rough, ugly strokes that their scalps bled while others had their hands all over the defenceless victims, pulling the bodice of their dresses down, exposing their breasts and squeezing them roughly.
He wanted to weep, stung by the injustice and flagrant disregard for the girls, but his rage that had been boiling gradually until it spilled over was far greater than the urge to shed tears. Mob justice made the participants blind and deaf to moderation, respect, the need to stand up and demand that what they were doing was wrong, inexcusable.
Furiously Charlie lunged at the Resistance fighter, disarming the surprised man and dragging him roughly through the crowd to the other side of the road. From the corner of his eye he saw his men following him. Charlie pushed the Frenchman against the wall.
"I cannot kill you, though I'd like to, you filthy piece of horse manure! Now, before I really am tempted to separate your head from your body, you are going to allow us to take the women away from here once you have finished your disgraceful business. You got that?" Charlie saw the arrogance in the man's eyes and shoved his arm harder across the fighter's neck.
When the Frenchman resisted, Linklater piped up. "Hey, if I were you, I'd listen to my captain. He really can take your head off your body, okay? You heard the man. Let us do for those women what we can."
All the time Charlie's injured right arm pressed hard into the Frenchman's throat. He was scarcely aware that blood had begun to seep from the wound again or that he was developing a headache.
Davis spoke up next to him.
"It's alright, Captain. You can let the bastard go now. I think his fear is greater than his cowardice right now."
Longman closed in and with Davis they tried to extricate Miller from the Frenchman. When Miller was eventually freed, Longman grabbed the fighter and head-butted him. He rocked back against wall. By the time he shook his head to recover from the force of the blow, Longman had produced his army knife and wielded it in front of the miserable fighter.
"I'm watching you, my man. I have eyes at the back of my head. If you so much as touch any of those women after today, here's what I'll do. I can shoot a goddam coyote at a distance of a thousand goddam yards. You'll wish you were a goddam snake! Be afraid!"
"Come," said Davis and they headed across the road again. The women who were finished stood crying, while bystanders pushed them around and men lifted their skirts and fondled them. This time the US soldiers calmly escorted the women through the mob amidst hissing and swearing. Compton, 6ft 6in tall, bent down to one of the mob and hissed right back in her face. Shocked, the woman bounced against her friends who'd come to terrorise the girls.
Charlie had calmly walked up to one of the shearers and warned them not to break the women's skin.
"See the top of that building over there?" Charlie said to the startled man. "One of my sniper's rifles is trained on you. You work too roughly, you make one cut in any of the women's scalps, you will have a bullet in your head. Is that clear?" he whispered in the man's ear, much to the annoyance of the crowd.
Then Charlie calmly walked through, joining his men.
"Longman!"
"Yes, Captain!"
"You can let that vermin go. Let him know our eyes are on him."
"Will do, Cappy!"
Longman slapped the Frenchman a few times before he grabbed him again and pushed him up against the wall glaring furiously at the hapless fighter.
"I wouldn't want to tell my grandchildren one day that their grandfather stood by and did nothing to help those defenceless women, you worthless rat!" Then he let go of the Frenchman so abruptly that he pitched forward fell down.
Miller reckoned if the police arrived, they'd be apathetic, likely to join in the injustice they witnessed. Riley, he noticed, had run back, swore at the men who shaved the girls, then grabbed the Resistance fighter's rifle from one of the women and unloaded the weapon.
"Okay, ready Captain!"
"Please," Miller said to the first girl, "come with us. We will see that you are safe and treat your wounds, do you understand?"
Charlie was shocked at the sight of her. Her hair had been roughly shorn off and she had bleeding cuts. Her face was dirty and she looked bedraggled. She'd been manhandled, probably ripped from her home and dragged into the streets.
Charlie held out his hand and waited for her response. She looked at him, her eyes wet as she placed her hand in his.
"We will wait for the others, " he said as Davis and the rest brought the women who had cuts on their heads.
"What do we do now, Captain?"
Charlie looked at the woman next to him. Her eyes were blue, reminding him suddenly of Katrine. A world of shame lay in them as she nodded, then looked at the other women. They kept their eyes lowered, staring at points somewhere on the ground, refusing to look at the American soldiers. The men had been vicious, the women treated with violence. The pregnant girl wept quietly. Their heads looked choppy, haphazardly shorn so that little tufts stood up. They appeared shattered, and when one of them looked up at last, he saw the humiliation in her eyes. It was reflected in every woman standing there and every woman who would still suffer the ignominy of shorn heads in acts of cowardice, disrespect and violence elsewhere in the city. His regiment would do what they could for the victims of these shameful deeds.
"We take you to our medical tents, okay?" he told the woman who held his hand. She was brave, he thought, like Katrine, her eyes red with unshed tears. "Come."
"Thank you, Captain. Thank you."
So they escorted the women to their emergency medical set-up near their barracks. They started talking to the women who understood very little English, but Charlie could swear they understood the sentiment of the words that issued haltingly from their lips. One of them had her arm around the pregnant girl's shoulders. He could hear her sobbing softly.
One woman must have had hair the colour of ripened corn judging by the yellowish tufts that stood out on her scalp. When he chanced to look at her, he drew in his breath. Though no woman could look as beautiful as Katrine, this woman had classic features, a face that could light up a silver screen. She also spoke the most, if her halting English could pass as conversation.
He moved to speak to the blonde girl. The tufts on her head stirred as she walked, giving the impression of corn swaying in the breeze.
When he reached her side, she looked at him.
"You are - are Capitaine, yes?"
"Captain Charles Miller."
"My name is Stephané Marceau."
"You are okay? You were crying back there. They were very rough."
Stephané paused, looking quickly at the others, then pulled Miller aside.
"I slept with no German," she whispered, the heat bouncing off her impassioned words. "Never!"
"You might have been set up?" he asked.
"Jealousy," she said, the fire slowly leaving her eyes, "can turn people into fiends, enemies..."
Charlie nodded, instinctively knowing what she was conveying to him. When they reached the medical tents, they saw other groups of the regiment who'd also accompanied women who were badly manhandled by the angry mobs.
"France is angry," said Stephané, her words filled with sadness. "In fifty years they will have forgotten what they had done. Perhaps even deny that it happened. Right now, they think they were right."
"Do not worry, Stephané. This moment will be recorded in history as France's ugliest moment, not something about which every Frenchman would be proud. Let me tell you, very soon you will look like a queen."
And Stephané Marceau smiled for the first time since she had been unceremoniously dragged from her home into the streets, her face transforming into an aching beauty.
The medics and nurses cleaned their cuts, the army barbers came in and smoothed the women's heads so that they looked ironically more beautiful. The women were happy that the uneven cutting and shaving had been given a cleaner, smooth appearance. Most had sutures in the deep cuts on their heads. They had been told to seek out their local doctors and district nurses to tend to the cuts.
Charlie knew that some of the women had little choice, like Katrine, in their liaisons with Germans. Others had fallen genuinely in love and wanted to make a life with their partners. He'd heard from Davis that two of the women had children by their German lovers, most of whom were either dead or placed in prisoner of war camps. Others still, like Stephané, were punished for their uncommon beauty; - a simple word, a whisper here, little gossip there, and she was the live-in lover of a German officer.
He instructed the men of A Company to escort the women to their homes. He had a feeling that the collective rage of the mass had simmered down by late afternoon. Ironically, their shaved heads were indications that they'd already been humiliated, and were nothing that a scarf or wig couldn't hide. If there were any more incidents, they were probably isolated by now.
It was a deeply worried Captain Miller who headed back to the barracks to get some rest. He'd been given another injection for the pain in his arm. After the incident with the enraged Resistance soldier, he'd ruptured two sutures and his arm had been bleeding by the time they'd reached the medics.
Walking back he worried about several things at once. One was accommodation once the 5th Infantry left to advance further north, through Verdun, Alsace-Lorraine and into Belgium. He would get one of the jeeps to take him north on September 7. He worried about Katrine and couldn't stop shuddering, thinking about the violence inflicted on the women in Paris. He couldn't bear the thought of her being pushed so viciously and then have chunks of her hair cut out without caring about injury.
When he entered his room at the barracks, he was still shaking. He had no inclination to go out into the streets again. He lay on his bed, hand behind his head, thinking, but it seemed the restlessness was growing in him. He tossed about on the bed, tried reading, but even Caesar's Gallic Wars held little appeal.
Realising he hadn't eaten since morning, he got up and walked to the mess hall. He was nursing a full blown headache but up until now had refused to take the additional painkillers and sedatives the medics had given him.
"Anything for you, Captain?" asked the mess hall sergeant.
"Roast leg of lamb, potatoes, glazed carrots, minced pies?"
"Ah, you'll have to settle for good old - "
"Pea and carrot stew with lots of potato...and rice?"
"Sorry!"
"No, don't ever be. I was meandering in my mother's kitchen!"
Once he'd eaten, he poured a glass of water and downed the tablets, hoping they'd do the job of clearing the resurging pain in his arm and his throbbing headache. He went back to his room and lay down on the bed again. This time he pulled out Katrine's letter and began reading, mulling over her invitation to visit her at her home in the city. He doubted whether she'd be there, but it wouldn't hurt if he went there, anyway.
His eyes drooped as the medication began taking effect. Soon the letter fluttered from his lifeless fingers onto his chest. Charles was asleep within minutes, lost in the oblivion of nothingness.
When he woke groggily hours later, he felt a little better. At least the headache was gone and the pain in his arm had dimmed to a dull throb. Still, the restlessness remained as memories of what had happened in the streets began to flood him again.
"No, no..." Charles cried softly, trying to will away the images of clippers that cut into skin, women touched all over their bodies, trying to hide their humiliation. He saw their shame, their meek demeanour when waiting in a line, only to be spat at, shouted at, abused. He heard the rustling of paper and realised it was Katrine's letter. With a soft curse he folded it carefully again, back in its envelope and between the pages of his book.
On a sudden impulse he got up, put on a clean shirt and his jacket. He packed all his belongings in his duffel and headed for the road behind the barracks. He always rode in the second jeep and had come to think of it as his.
"Elsevier!"
"Captain?"
Johannes Elsevier raised his head from the back of the jeep. Charlie half expected another head to jump up next to his. It was still hot for late summer, a glorious evening, one that invited little trysts in the dark. His driver remained innocent, a stocky young man of medium height, but very strong. He'd boxed against the soldier a few times in Iceland and Northern Ireland. Elsevier was a wizard with anything that moved on the road.
"I need the jeep," he told the private.
"Where can I take you, Captain?" Elsevier asked, rubbing his hand in glee at the prospect of driving Captain Miller all over Paris.
"You stay right here. I need to go somewhere."
Elsevier looked suspiciously at him, then relented only slightly when Charlie held out his hand for the ignition key.
"I know the city, sir..."
"Don't make me put you on kitchen duty, Elsevier."
And Elsevier remembered how Compton peeled potatoes in Iceland 'til his fingers bled because he irritated the captain. He was a driver, he could follow trails with his nose through the city. What did the captain know? Back home, he steered a logging truck all over Washington State. If the captain wanted to, he'd drive him all the way from here to Dakar. Think about it, Paris to Dakar! Oh, the captain was going to get lost! The man still had his hand outstretched, waiting for the key. Eventually Elsevier handed the keys to Charlie.
"You gonna bring the jeep back, Captain?" Elsevier asked.
"I'm keeping the jeep, Elsevier. You will transfer to one of the trucks tomorrow. I will meet up with the Red Diamonds early September."
Elsevier nodded, but kept his gaze on Charlie. The captain didn't look well to him. He looked spaced-out. His eyes were red as if he'd either slept too much or slept too little. Also, Elsevier noticed how the captain's hands trembled and he was certain that it wasn't because of the bullet wound in his arm. It wasn't even that he almost killed a citizen of France today. His buddies Linklater and Compton had told everyone in the barracks of the captain's fury. No, it wasn't that either.
"Sir, are you okay?" the young private asked when Charlie began to shudder again.
"Don't worry about me. That's an order!"
"Please, don't murder anyone tonight, Captain!"
"Elsevier, out of my way!
"Yes, sir!" Elsevier crowed as he saluted and promptly jumped into the back of one of the other jeeps.
Charlie began driving away from the barracks, heading towards Saint Germain. He had memorised Katrine's address. It was a good thing he'd studied maps of the city when the company had travelled from St. Clair. The last week or so, their combats had taken them all over the city. He ought to have a good idea of his bearings. If Katrine wasn't there, he'd ask the neighbour for her key as she'd instructed in her letter.
After an hour of driving around the city, he knew he was lost when he found himself near the Arc de Triomphe. For the third time. He was also feeling decidedly under the weather. He didn't really have a headache but it felt like dolphins were swimming around in his head and making him drunk. Sighing, he turned away from the monument, heading in the opposite direction, belatedly seeing the sign reading Saint Germain. He followed the signs, satisfied at last that he was making some progress.
So he kept on driving, his thoughts on Katrine and how he was going to warn her not to step outside her home, he'd be there to protect her. He was going to park his vehicle outside her door and kill the first man who bothered her. He wasn't even certain that she'd be there, but it didn't matter. He shook his head hard to dispel the shudders that seemed to take control of his body. Were the dolphins taking up-and-down dives in giant sweeping arcs in his brain? He was tired, he was restless, he was in a foul mood. But mostly, the memories of the humiliated women flooded his head and swam with the dolphins round and round and round.
"God damn you all!" he cried out in the darkness that had descended on Paris. "Keep away from me!"
Finally he found a street. The signpost read Rue Beatrice. Another three blocks. He drove slowly down that road until he saw the name on the post. Now he was getting somewhere. How long had he been driving around in the vast city with streets and avenues and boulevards that seemed to force him to go in circles?
Rue Lion...
He drove slowly until he reached the number 47. When he stopped, he could see a light burning in a window that faced the street. His heart raced as he climbed out and stumbled to her door. All the time the echoes bounced around in his skull, refusing to slow down. Faces flashed before him, then blinding light followed by giant clippers, berets, heads that looked like plucked chickens... Meanwhile the dolphins continued swimming in his head, competing with the giant clippers and plucked chickens. He thought he was going crazy.
"Go away..." he begged the echoes. "Please..."
Forcing himself to focus on the reality of the black night, a great door in front of him, images of Katrine, Charlie saw the knocker with the head of a lion.
He gripped the lion's head and banged the knocker loudly before collapsing against the doorjamb
Charles Miller waited for the door to open. He needed to be with her; every fibre in his body screamed to be soothed by her touch. He closed his eyes, exhausted. He was just going to bang the knocker again when the door creaked open.
An angel stood in the doorway, bathed in an aura of light.
"Katrine..." he murmured her name before she caught him in her arms.
END CHAPTER TWELVE
A/N - As always, I appreciate your comments!