Once More Unto the Breach Page 10

  I leaned forward and peered at the skyline through the bullet-hole riddled windscreen. “There!” I pointed toward the billows of smoke rising from the city center.

  When we reached the hospital, the upper story was already engulfed. Nurses raced in and out of the building alongside soldiers to evacuate the remaining wounded.

  “My god,” Charlotte breathed, and Otto whined.

  I leapt down as soon as the vehicle came to a halt. “The both of you stay outside and help.”

  Charlotte buried her fingers in Otto’s hair. “If you don’t come out, we’ll come in after you.”

  “I’ll come back.” I retrieved the letter from my pocket and held it out to her. “Keep this safe for me. Please.”

  She accepted it, handling it carefully, and nodded. I stripped off my shirt and tied the garment over my mouth and nose. “We need a water truck here!” I shouted to the colonel. I did not wait for his response but ran into the burning building.

  A nurse staggered in front of me, coughing violently. I grasped her arm and turned her back toward the doors. “Upstairs! Are there men upstairs?” I gestured above me.

  She nodded frantically and pointed toward the stairs. A group of soldiers ran in, and I pushed her toward one. “Get her outside. The rest of you men, with me.”

  We raced up the stairs, and I directed half of the men to cover the second floor. The rest followed me to the third. The fire was already eating through the roof, and the conflagration roared like a wild animal. The smoke was thick and black, choking and blinding.

  The soldiers and I shouted, but there was no response.

  “Back downstairs,” I ordered. “This building is going to come down. Get everyone out!”

  The soldiers preceded me down the stairs, and as I started to follow, a sound reached me. “Is anyone here?” I yelled again, and coughed as the acrid smoke fingered the makeshift scarf I had tied around my face.

  “Aidez…aidez-moi!”

  The voice was faint, and I could barely hear it over the thunder of the fire. “Keep talking! Where are you?”

  “S’il vous plaît! Aidez-moi!”

  I crouched and made my way toward the voice, keeping an eye on the ceiling. “I’m coming for you!”

  It took me long moments of blind searching to find him. And it was not one man, I realized, but two. A man with both legs gone from the knees down dragged himself across the floor, leading the man crawling behind him. The man he struggled to lead to safety had thick bandages wound round his head, covering his eyes.

  I knelt beside them and caught the bandaged man’s arm. “Get on my back.” I looked at the other man and motioned to my back. “He has to get on my back.”

  The man spoke quickly to his blinded friend who obeyed the instructions in frantic fumbles. I caught the other man up in my arms and groaned with the effort to stand under both their weights. I staggered in the direction I thought the stairs were, but the smoke was so thick now I could not see even a meter before me. A shower of cinders rained down on our heads, and the beast ate its way across the ceiling toward us.

  There was a groan like a wounded animal, and then the floor collapsed below my feet as a burning beam from the roof fell toward us.

  Screaming joined the howl of the blaze, and I could not be certain my own voice did not join in before I hit the floor of the story below. I landed hard enough to force the air from my lungs and draw blackness over my gaze for an instant.

  I scrambled upright, and my lungs felt as if I were inhaling the fire within me. My eyes streamed, and I wiped at them to no avail. My shirt had been torn away from my face in the fall.

  Screaming interrupted the ringing in my head, and I turned. I had been knocked aside in the fall through the ceiling, as had the man I carried. But the blinded man had taken the full brunt of the burning beam. He was trapped beneath its weight, and the flames were already too high to try to drag him free. The fire bit into his flesh and latched on like a rabid creature. He writhed and shrieked in agony.

  I drew my Luger and with a well-aimed bullet ended his torment.

  I grabbed the other man and slung him over my shoulder. He was limp and heavy, and my legs almost collapsed beneath me. I caught a glimpse of the stairwell and stumbled toward it, forcing my legs into a run as I heard the ceiling creaking and moaning above us. I dove for the stairwell just as the third floor fell entirely, and we tumbled down the stairs in a tangle of limbs.

  There was smoke all around, as thick as fog, and for a moment I thought it was yellow and thought the shriek of the inferno was the wail of shells overhead. “Take cover!” I tried to scream to the men beside me in the trenches, fumbling for my gas mask, but my throat was so raw no sound escaped.

  Pain ripped through my arm, startling me back to the present. When the pain came again, I realized it was teeth piercing my skin, gripping and trying to pull me. Otto.

  I struggled to my knees, my head feeling oddly light, and twisted my fist into the other man’s shirt collar. I dragged him behind me as I crawled through the smoke. Otto nudged me in the right direction, barking in my ear, and a tendril of fresh air pierced my lungs as painfully as the smoke. And then hands latched onto me, lifting me and carrying me from the destroyed hospital.

  “Let me through! Let me through!” a woman’s voice shouted as I was carried away from the building and placed on the grass under a tree.

  Gentle, strong hands rolled me onto my side and pounded on my back as I coughed so violently I choked. When I could gasp in air once more, those capable hands eased me onto my back, and a soft, damp cloth bathed the soot from my face. Otto licked my arms and hands.

  I squinted, eyes swollen and streaming. The face above mine was blurred, but I recognized the honey-colored hair that was coming unbound and the delicate curve of jaw. I wanted to reach up and sooth away the furrow in her brow, but my hand fell before it reached its destination and I lost my grip on consciousness.

  24 August 1941

  Dear Nhad,

  People were dragged off the streets today and taken as hostages.

  A communist shot a German officer at a metro station the other day.

  It seems they have decided to lend their guns to the resistance efforts.

  But it is not without cost. The Germans are threatening to execute

  the hostages if there are any more assassinations.

  The streets of Paris grow increasingly dangerous.

  -Owain

  x

  Henri

  I found him easily enough in the makeshift hospital. He was a tall man, noticeable even prone, and the poodle I had seen drag him from the inferno was draped over his legs.

  It was chaotic within the cathedral as the American soldiers and French nurses scrambled to care for the wounded and comfort those confused and frightened by the fire. I wove through the cots until I reached his side. The poodle eyed me, and I spoke softly to him. He was a fine German dog. Not as sturdy and powerfully built as my schnauzer had been, but athletic and intelligent. Gerhardt’s collar and the cigar box rested heavily in my pockets.

  I extended my hand to the poodle, but he made no move to sniff my fingers. He continued to watch me, and I realized my plan to take the man from this place hinged not on going unnoticed by the soldiers and nurses but on the poodle’s diligent, guarding presence. I had waited until I saw the woman leave, but I had not counted on the poodle. Only a brute would hurt an animal, so I swiftly reevaluated my options and took a moment to study the man.

  The likeness was startling. From a distance, they could be mistaken for brothers, if not for one another. At this proximity, though, I could see the weathered quality of this man’s face, the silver streaking the hair at his temples, the lines bracketing his eyes. His face held far more character and wear than his son’s, putting him closer to my age, perhaps a decade younger than my fifty-five years.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  I turned. It was the
woman. I studied her, noting the symmetry and brightness of her face, the changeful eyes. She was not beautiful, not exactly, but there was an undeniable appeal about her that would make a man want to study the way the light played in her eyes. Those eyes would be impossible to paint, but I knew I would have to attempt the challenge.

  And her face was startlingly familiar. Her head tilted, brow wrinkling as she looked at me, and I knew a sense of recognition needled her as well. I tensed as I realized why she struck me as so familiar.

  She repeated her question in French, and I responded in kind. “I am. He is doing better than expected. I was worried about the amount of smoke he may have inhaled, but his lungs are sound. I am not concerned about his recovery.”

  The relief was plain in her face, and I relaxed when she looked away from me. She placed a bundled assortment of clothing at the foot of the cot and rested her hand on the poodle’s head. His eyes closed briefly under her touch, and his tail thumped. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  I inclined my head to her and moved to the next bed to keep up appearances. When I glanced at the woman from the corner of my eye, she was perched on the edge of the man’s cot. She spoke softly to the poodle, stroking a hand along his back, but her gaze was on the man’s face. I wondered what was between the pair and if I could use it against him to get the answers I needed.

  I left before she could recall the sense of recognition and before I drew the notice of the soldiers and picked a place down the street where I could wait and watch without being seen.

  3 October 1941

  Dear Nhad,

  I met an artist today. His name is Picasso.

  He gave me a postcard of one of his paintings. Guernica.

  You would hate it.

  -Owain

  xi

  The sound of laughter woke me, and still drifting in the ebbing tide of sleep, I stretched my hand across the bed. I was met only with emptiness and a cold, barren space where once a soft, warm woman had curled. I rolled to my back, fully awake now, and tasted the acrid poison of bitterness at the back of my tongue.

  The light was tepid and pale through the window, weakened by the gray sky and sharpened by the blanket of snow on the ground. I rested my hand on my chest, and for a moment I imagined there was no heartbeat within, only a raging hollowness. But then I felt the thump of blood flowing through its chambers. Sourness churned in my gut, and I slung off the quilts, gaining my feet.

  Dressing was mechanical, until I heard the laughter again. I paused in threading the braces over my shoulders and glanced out the window, but saw nothing from my room’s vantage.

  My mother was humming softly in the kitchen when I entered. Puccini, I thought, though her humming was off-key and bordered on tuneless. I kissed the top of her head and accepted the mug of tea she pressed into my hands.

  “Mam.”

  “You should eat, cariad.”

  Tea was the only thing my stomach did not revolt against lately. I felt weak, and in the fields, my strength was waning. I knew I could not allow myself to waste away, but the sourness in my gut refused to abate. I finished the tea quickly. “Perhaps later. Where are Owain and Ffaddyr?”

  She smiled. “Outside. It snowed again last night.”

  The snow made a soft murmur of sound as I stepped into it and sank to my ankles. I followed the sound of laughter around the side of the house to find my father and son engaged in battle. My father gently pelted my son with small snowballs. Owain slung snow at my father, but it did not stay in form and merely showered him with powder. Rhiannon ran in circles around the pair, barking, springing into the air to bite at the falling crystals.

  Focused on my son, I did not see the snowball coming until it caught me in the face. The laughter and barking went silent, and I wiped the snow from my face with the sleeve of my coat. My father wore a careful expression of innocence, and Owain stared at me, mouth agape, eyes round.

  The pleasure on his face had been replaced by hesitation, and I suddenly recalled the tugging at my arm this morning and the whispered, “Dadi, Dadi, come outside and play.” I had shaken him off and rolled over.

  No more, I told myself, galvanized. No more of this wallowing. I knelt and packed the snow between my hands, tight enough to form a ball but loose enough it would not pain my intended victim on impact. I launched it as I stood, and it hit Owain in the center of his chest, exploding white froth over him.

  He sat down hard in the snow, blinking as he wiped his face. And then he let out a war cry that would do any Celt proud as he sprang to his feet and raced toward me. I let him tackle me to the ground and dump handfuls of snow over me. He howled with laughter, and Rhiannon ran in circles around us, barking.

  It pained me at first, when a laugh erupted from my chest. It felt as if it lanced my heart, and the bitterness bled away as I lay in the snow laughing with my son.

  I startled into wakefulness with a jolt that set off a violent round of coughing.

  Charlotte appeared at my side and helped me upright. She handed me a canteen, and I drank eagerly. The cool water soothed my raw throat, and I glanced around as I drank. My eyes burned, bleary and scratchy. She thrust a handkerchief my way, and I doused it with water before bathing my face and wiping my eyes.

  “They have set up a cathedral as a makeshift hospital,” she explained. Cots lined either side of the nave and the center, leaving just enough space for the doctors and nurses to move between beds. “You were not burnt, merely singed and blistered. But the doctors were concerned about your lungs. I could have sworn I knew the doctor…” I tried to speak, but only a rough croak emerged. “Drink some more,” she urged, and sat at the foot of the cot. “You frightened me. When the building began to collapse…” She turned her face away and was quiet for a moment. A deep breath moved through her chest like a bellows. With a tilt of her chin, she directed my gaze across the nave. “I believe our dog is more suited to healing than to war. He’s made rounds through the entire place, visiting each patient.”

  Otto was currently draped over a patient’s lap, and the man stroked the poodle’s ears. The sheets drawn over the man’s legs flattened after the knob of his knees. He must have sensed my eyes on him for he looked up, met my gaze, and inclined his head.

  “How many were lost?” My voice was a hoarse whisper that scraped my throat.

  Charlotte turned back to me. “Two. A patient and a doctor, both last seen on the third floor.” I nodded. I knew what had become of the patient. “Almost one hundred fifty were saved, though.”

  “Did they find…” A cough rattled in my lungs, and I took another drink from the canteen. “Did they find who fired the tracer into the hospital?”

  “No. The Resistance is out of control. The colonel was right. It is like a revolution in the streets.”

  My voice was a ragged whisper, but the violent coughing had abated. “How long have I been here?”

  “Less than twenty-four hours. The fire was yesterday.”

  The echo of my son’s laughter drifted across my mind. I swung my legs over the side of the cot and hung my head until the wave of dizziness passed and I was steady. My shoulder throbbed, and blisters welted the skin on my forearms. “The delay. I need—”

  Charlotte placed a stack of clothing in my lap. It was the extra set I had packed for my journey. The holster and Luger were tucked between my undershirt and my trousers. “Your others were thrown out. We can leave as soon as you dress.”

  _______

  The ambulance aided our eastward wade through the current of troops flowing north after the retreating Germans.

  “If I had my druthers, this would be the end of the war. Do you think it is?” Charlotte asked.

  Lice and rats, dust and mud veined with blood, shells whistling overhead and yellow gas sinking into the trenches pressed at my memory. I buried a hand in Otto’s fur and shook away the images. “It depends on whether the troops are stopped before they reach Hitler’s doorstep.”


  “Stopped by the Germans?”

  “No. By the men fighting this war from the blind vantage of their desks.”

  My hand went to my pocket, and a spike of alarm coursed through me when all I felt was fabric. No paper rustled under my fingers, and my heart lurched before I recalled I wore fresh clothes.

  “I have kept your letter safe.”

  Her quiet words brought my attention to her. Her gaze was on the narrow track of road, but she held the letter out to me. I reached for it, and a tremor shook my hand. I tightened my fingers into a fist, waiting for the weakness to pass before I accepted the letter.

  It was warm, and I fingered the worn edges before tucking it away. I rested my hand over my pocket, rubbing against the layers of fabric and paper.

  “I forgot to replace your cigarette.”

  “No matter. I do not smoke.”

  She glanced at me, her cheek creasing with her smile. The dark wing of her eyebrow arched before she turned back to focus on the road. “I know.”

  We followed the Rhône through decimated farmland and villages. The hills grew taller with our eastward journey, the gentle slopes giving way to craggy cliff faces that watched our passing like silent, solemn sentinels. I studied our route on the map as we traversed the countryside.

  The river meandered northeast toward the foothills of the Jura. We ventured away from the river, following a track that curved along the base of the cliffs. The forest was dense, and it cloistered about the edges of the rough track we traversed until a stone wall built along either side of the road pushed the trees back and led us into the village.

  La Balme-les-Grottes was a brief tangle of narrow lanes and canals. The buildings were square, the stone bleached by the sun and smoothed by the years. All of the shutters were pink and closed tightly against the late-day light. The village was silent, eerily so. No children ran in the lanes with their dogs, no mothers watched from doorways, no chickens foraged around the homes. La Balme-les-Grottes was utterly still.