Once More Unto the Breach Read online

  ONCE MORE

  UNTO THE

  BREACH

  ONCE MORE

  UNTO THE

  BREACH

  Meghan Holloway

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by A. Meghan Holloway

  Cover and jacket design by Mimi Bark

  ISBN 978-1-947993-60-0

  eISBN: 978-1-947993-75-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: tk

  First trade paperback edition May 2019 by Polis Books, LLC

  221 River St., 9th Fl., #9070

  Hoboken, NJ 07030

  www.PolisBooks.com

  To Michael,

  For planting the seed, joining me on this coddiwomple,

  and encouraging me every step of the way

  To E.A.D.,

  For telling me stories

  To L.O.C.,

  A man I’ve only known through stories

  To Aidan and in memory of JJ,

  My own beloved Ottos

  To the men and women of the Greatest Generation,

  For living lives of honor, sacrifice,

  and commitment

  And to my grandmother,

  Who was so proud that I am an author and so excited about this story,

  but who never had the chance to read it herself

  6 April 1940

  Dear Nhad,

  I arrived in Paris today. There is a disquiet and edge here.

  It is as if the city is holding its breath. Waiting.

  -Owain

  i

  Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

  Or close the wall up with our English dead.

  In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

  As modest stillness and humility;

  But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

  Then imitate the action of the tiger…

  Henry V, Act 3, Scene 1, 1-6

  27 August 1944

  I hated Paris as much as I did any city, with its buildings like encaging bars and the congestion of people making it feel as if the air were rationed. And never more so did I hate the city than when it was filled with gutted shops, sandbag barricades, and coils of barbed wire.

  The sun had not yet risen above the chimneys when I reached Rue de Vaugirard.

  Be wary near Palais du Luxembourg, the old man had warned, and the Panthéon. The fighting, it is heavy there with la Résistance.

  I shook off the fog of memories and swept my gaze from the streets to the rooftops as I skirted the palace. The streets were eerily quiet, and I knew the expansive gardens, though I could see little of them, were empty of the Luftwaffe. I followed the curve of the grounds, gaze continually moving.

  The heightened vigilance threatened to drag me back decades, and it was a relief when a shrill whistle split the air. An unseen enemy was always the more dangerous.

  I looked ahead just as the sun gleamed over the bell-like curve of a grand stone structure at the end of a wide, straight street. Then I turned to face the men separating themselves from the cover of foliage and shadowed alleys.

  “Hé! Qui es-tu?”

  “Où vas-tu?”

  The men approached aggressively, two of the seven with the straps of their rifles banded across their chests, one with a thick, gnarled staff propped on his shoulder. They had a bone to scratch, and I had crossed their territory at the wrong moment. As was often my lot, I stood head and shoulders above them, and the sidelong glances and fanning out around me hinted at their unease.

  Their faces were drawn tight with weariness, hunger, and suspicion. Such was the face of resistance.

  “Eh?” The one who had spoken first did so again, thrusting his chin at me. “Qui es-tu?”

  They were all bristled and lean, younger than they looked, I wagered, but whittled and hardened from four years of fighting. They murmured amongst one another, and I caught the words carlingue and allemande.

  “I do not speak French,” I said, widening my stance and shifting my weight onto the balls of my feet. I kept my arms loose at my side, hands open. “Je ne parle pas français.” The phrase came to me suddenly, and I remembered with startling clarity the boy who had taught me the words almost thirty years ago. He had been even younger than I, and he had been laughing over my stilted pronunciation when a German bullet punched through his helmet and skull. “I do not understand.”

  “You are American?” The one who spoke was the shortest of the seven, and though his stature hinted at youth, his eyes were like river stones.

  “No.” I shifted to keep them all in my line of sight as the one with the staff began to edge around me. “I am Welsh.”

  “Welsh.” The first one who had spoken was obviously their leader, and he conferred with the others now in a sharp burst of words. When he turned back to me, his face was twisted in a sneer. “Tu es anglais.”

  Anglais. English. “No.” My voice matched his for hardness. “I am not English. I am Welsh.”

  He spit on the ground. “L’anglais are cowards.” He finished with a torrent of words in his own language.

  I did not need to understand French to understand the tone, and I braced myself. I was expecting the staff and heard the whisper of air as it rushed toward my head.

  I had spent my life with a shepherd’s staff in my hand. It was a tool I knew well—well enough to also know how to use it as a weapon. I caught it before the blow could land, and with a swift twist and jerk, I yanked it from the man’s grasp. He was off balance, so it was a simple enough thing to sweep his feet from under him.

  I flipped the staff in my hands and thrust the thicker end into the gut of the man rushing me. He went down wheezing, and I caught the next in that sensitive region between the throat and the shoulder. He cried out, and I knew his right arm had gone excruciatingly numb.

  Then the butt of a rifle caught me in the temple.

  I staggered and went down on a knee. As I struggled to get my feet back under me, a boot caught me in the jaw, and the world wavered.

  I knew as soon as I opened the door to his bedroom.

  The bed was neatly made, the quilt Aelwyd had sewn before he was born smoothed across the narrow stretch. When I looked in the bureau, I found it empty. His coat and boots were gone from the hook and shelf by the door.

  I strode across the yard, cupped my hands around my mouth, and shouted his name into the hills. Only the echo responded.

  The road squelched underfoot as I walked to its summit south of the house. From the crest of the hill, I could see the track as it twisted through the valley. The hills were brown in the grip of winter, the sky the color of a cold sea. The lane was a seam that followed the curve of the land as it undulated in swells and peaks like an endless wave. The grazing sheep were skirted with mud and smelled of the moorland.

  It was empty for as far as I could see, and I staggered as the full realization struck me like a blow.

  He was gone.

  A kick in the ribs jerked me back to awareness as the four uninjured men dragged me into the closest alley. Another kick caught me low in the back, and I groaned. The alley spun around me, but I managed to catch the next boot aimed at my face, yanking the man off his feet.

  “Arrêtez! Arrêtez!”

  The new voice did not penetrate the blows until a gunshot rang through the alley and a shard of brick glanced across my cheek.

  I gathered an elbow under me as the men ducked and mov
ed away. A woman stood at the mouth of the alley. The pistol in her hand was aimed above the men’s heads, but now she leveled it at the man closest to her. “Arrêtez. Ou le prochain sera dans votre tête.”

  An argument broke out, and the angry voices made my head pound as if it were on a blacksmith’s anvil. My stomach rolled as I forced myself up onto my knees, and I half-crawled, half-shuffled to lean against the stone wall. I propped my elbows on my bent knees and cupped my head in my hands.

  I did not realize consciousness had started to fade until a gentle touch on my shoulder startled me. “Sir?” The woman. Her voice was soft and accented, but the lilt was not French. “Are you well?”

  I lifted my head quickly and glanced behind her, only realizing I had caught her elbow and dragged her to my other side when she let out a startled yelp. The alley was empty.

  “They’ve gone. It’s safe now.”

  My sight wavered as I turned toward her. Even with my vision blurred, I noticed her eyes. They were the color of the sky in Wales before a storm, so dark and turbulent they were more gray than blue. They studied me intently.

  She leaned in close, cool hands cupping my face, brow furrowed as she peered into my own eyes. “You need medical attention, and we can’t stay here. Others will have heard the shot, and it’s best not to be caught in a crowd these days. Can you stand?”

  American. Her voice was low and smooth, but forthright and no-nonsense. She had to be American.

  “Aye, I can stand.” She straightened and held her hand out to me. It was covered in blood, as was her arm above her elbow, staining the edge of her dress’s sleeve. “You are bleeding.”

  Her eyes flickered. “It’s yours.”

  I looked at my hand to find it stained red. My face felt wet, and when I touched my right temple, I winced and felt a rivulet stream down my cheek.

  “Don’t. You’ll only make it worse.”

  I staggered to my feet and leaned against the wall as the ground tilted beneath me. Before I could protest, the woman wedged herself against my side and draped my arm over her shoulders. “Quickly now. Lean on me.”

  The top of her honey-colored head reached my breast-pocket, but her grip was strong. “More will come?”

  “It’s possible, but not likely. You landed some blows yourself, it seemed.” She tilted her head back to look at me and smiled, and it was as if I were home watching the sun break through the dense morning mist that blanketed the hills.

  “The pistol…” It was nowhere in sight.

  “Let me handle the pistol. You focus on walking. Is there somewhere I can take you?”

  I stumbled to a halt, almost pulling her off balance in my haste, and fumbled for my pocket, only relaxing when my fingers traced the crinkled edges of the letter. My head pounded in rhythm with my heart. The woman peered up at me, curiosity blatant in her face.

  “I have to reach 27 Rue Tournefort.”

  “Tournefort…I know it. But it is at least a kilometer away, and you need your head tended to.”

  “I must—”

  “You can barely stand on your own. I have a friend who lives nearby. She’s a nurse.” I resisted when she tried to guide me forward. “Please. I’m in the Ambulance Field Service. I know a concussion when I see it. If you come with me now, I will take you to Rue Tournefort myself once Dionne checks your head.”

  My stomach felt as if it were attempting to crawl up my throat, so I acquiesced. “Thank you, miss.”

  “Charlie will do.”

  “Charlie?”

  She did not answer immediately, instead peering out the mouth of the alley. “This way.”

  “My rucksack.” It lay in the street, and I swayed where I stood as she fetched it and slung it over her shoulders before returning to my side.

  She led me down the long, straight street. The sun now gilded the dome of the stone structure ahead and pierced my eyes. I blinked in relief, eyes watering, when, after a block, she turned north onto a narrow side street. “Charlotte Dubois, but everyone calls me Charlie.”

  I had known a lad in school named Charlie. He had looked like the south end of a north-bound wild boar and had the personality to match. He had been dim gwerth rhech dafad. “Charlotte. Rhys Gravenor.”

  “You are Welsh. They said you were English.”

  “I told them otherwise.”

  “Shame they didn’t believe you.” She turned into an alcove. “Just here.” She produced a key from the pocket of her dress and fit it into the lock. The door opened with a metal groan into a carpeted foyer with a winding staircase wrapped around a lift. My apprehension must have been apparent, for Charlotte glanced at the glass and wood box. “It hasn’t worked in years. Careful going now. Dionne’s flat is at the top.”

  The steep, circular climb was dizzying, and by the time we reached the sixth level, I was weaving on my feet.

  “Steady, steady,” she murmured, leading me to the last door at the end of the hall. She knocked, and moments later, a dark-haired woman opened the door.

  “Retour si tôt? Ou—” The woman broke off as she caught sight of me and then launched into a hushed, rapid exchange with Charlotte in French. I fought to keep from leaning too heavily against the slight woman at my side. The Frenchwoman stepped back and opened the door wider. “Take him by the window, where the light is best.”

  The flat was small with a sparse, threadbare look, though the place was clean and welcoming. The ceiling was steeply slanted, and as we moved to the window, I had to stoop lest my head brush the ceiling.

  I sat down heavily in the chair the Frenchwoman dragged over, too disoriented to be concerned about dwarfing the delicate frame. I winced, and the woman’s shrewd gaze did not miss the movement.

  “Charlie, bring some water and cloth. And my medical pouch, oui?” She turned back to me as Charlotte disappeared behind the only door aside from the entry in the flat. The kitchen was in a corner of the room and a curtain was hung over a threshold, behind which I guessed was the bedroom. “Lean forward, s’il vous plaît. You were hit in the back?”

  I did as instructed and propped my elbows on my knees. She untucked my shirt from my trousers and pushed it up under my arms. “Kicked. In the right kidney.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Oui, le rein. A bruise is developing.” He fingers were warm as she palpated the area, and even though her touch was light, I grimaced. “You will be sore, and there may be some blood.”

  I nodded and straightened, rolling my shirt back down my torso as Charlotte re-entered the room.

  The Frenchwoman moved around to face me. “Your jaw is swelling and bruised as well. Your teeth, they are loose? Broken?”

  I ran my tongue over the back of my teeth. “No.”

  “Bien. Charlie, you will clean his head while I will make a poultice for his face and back.” She disappeared behind the curtain and reappeared moments later with a number of green leaves in hand.

  “Comfrey?”

  Charlotte placed the basin of water in my lap, a medical pouch on the floor beside my feet, and dragged the one other chair from its place before a tiny table to sit before me. “Dionne always says that it is best for healing wounds, as long as the skin is not broken.” She dipped a cloth into the water and carefully wiped the blood from my face and neck.

  “My mother says so as well.”

  I studied her. Her skin was pale with the faintest dusting of freckles across her cheeks. Her eyes were mesmerizing. In the shadowed alley, they had appeared so dark as to be gray. Here, with the morning light glancing over her forehead and nose, they appeared as pale a blue as the sky in winter. Her brow furrowed, and as she leaned closer, dampening the cloth in the water again and dabbing around the gash at my temple, I could smell the crisp aroma of peppermint.

  “You are American.”

  Her gaze flicked to mine and then back to her work. She smiled and again her face was transformed, as if lit by the sun from within. “I am indeed.�
�

  She leaned back and studied my face and then bent to retrieve the medic pouch. Dionne spoke again in French, and Charlotte used a pair of crooked bandage scissors to trim a square of gauze before passing the rest to the other woman. She plucked an iodine swab from a box of tinctures, snapped the tip, and shook the contents to the end of the cotton. She applied the iodine, placed the square of gauze over the gash, and ripped a piece of adhesive plaster to secure it with the edge of her teeth with quick precision born of much practice. She smoothed the adhesive into place and peered into my eyes once more. “How is your vision?”

  “Blurred at times.”

  “Dizziness? Drowsiness?”

  I started to nod and thought better of it. “Aye.”

  She retrieved the basin of water, now pink with the stain of blood, and disappeared into the wash room. Dionne approached with two compresses, the comfrey poultice layered between pieces of gauze.

  “Hold this.” Dionne placed one compress on the swelling of my jaw. “Now lean forward.” She rolled my shirt up again and placed the second on the bruising over my kidney and secured it in place with the adhesive plaster.

  The clean, fresh aroma of the comfrey filled my head.

  “What is this now?”

  My mother straightened from arranging a compress of comfrey over a swelling knot on Owain’s forehead. She wiped her hands on her apron.

  “Billy Hughes was being a diawl to the new boy at school.”

  “Language, Owain,” my mother said.

  “You know it is true, Mamgu.”

  My mother met my gaze, and the look on her face said that even though she reprimanded him, she agreed with him.

  I hid a smile. “And?”

  “And I stopped him.”

  I glanced at his knuckles. They were smooth and unscathed. I rubbed the back of my neck as I pulled out a chair at the table and sat next to him. “You let him hit you again.”

  He hung his head. “I did not let him.”