Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Ten

Frenchie dragged himself up the river bank, panting and gasping. He found himself upon a flat stone that formed a landing where someone might launch a rowboat. Stone steps, worn smooth over time, led up the steep bank. The air smelled faintly of dead fish and dank mud. Frenchie sprawled across the landing stone, letting the water run off him, and figured out what to do next.

He was still alive, or at least, he seemed to be, unless this was some dream from the afterlife and he was actually dead. He'd read a Western story like that once in high school English class, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" by Ambrose Bierce. But no, his heart pounded and his lungs ached too much from the effort of swimming for this to be anything but real. Also, he began to shiver. The sky remained low and overcast, almost clinging to the landscape, and the wind had a damp edge.

He was bleeding from his leg. He pushed the fabric aside to reveal an angry red furrow in his thigh. Nothing deep, although it stung like fire. He knew that it was a bullet wound. Now that he was out of the river, blood was pooling in the gouge and running down his thigh, staining his trousers. He'd have to do something about that eventually, but he wasn't bleeding to death.

An image flashed in his head of the fat bullet hole in Marty’s helmet. He knew that hed be having nightmares about that for years to come. His stomach clenched all over again, the thought of his friend's death causing actual physical pain.

“I’m sorry, Marty,” he groaned. “I’ll write your parents. I promise.”

He took stock of the rest of his body. There didn't seem to be any bullet holes, which was a good sign. His wet uniform reeked of muddy water and old sweat.

God, he was thirsty. Who would have thought that he'd be thirsty, after swimming the river?

He sat up and looked around. He seemed to be all alone. The water was smooth and empty. He studied the bridge more closely. It was narrow, arched, and built of stone. Frenchie was no kind of expert, but to him the bridge looked ancient or medieval.

Cautiously, he climbed the steps. He'd lost his helmet and his rifle somewhere in the river. His only weapon was a combat knife, which wouldn't do him much good if he ran into an SS patrol at the top of the steps. He couldn't fight back, and they weren't taking any prisoners.

Reaching the top, he was surprised to see a village come into view. There hadn't been anything near the Dornot bridgehead, so he must have drifted farther than he'd thought. Sure, he was glad that he was still alive, but he was terrified all the same. He had no idea where he was, or what might be waiting for him. From boot camp on, a soldier was part of a unit and rarely alone. For the first time in months, Frenchie was on his own. He had to admit that it was a strange feeling.

The thing to do was to be stealthy. He had to creep up on that village and get the lay of the land. If he was lucky, there would be some Americans there. If there were Germans in the village, he was as good as dead.

He kept off the road that led from the bridge to the village and stayed on the path that was a sort of shortcut from the river. The good thing was that the path passed through some trees and garden plots, so that he had some cover. However, he didn't feel all that stealthy. His wet clothes hung off him, his boots squelched with each step, and he was shivering. His leg stung.

Too late, he heard voices. A couple of boys about twelve years old appeared as if out of nowhere on the path ahead. They both carried cane fishing poles, as if they been headed down to the river to try their luck. The boys caught sight of him and froze. Frenchie stared back. Then the boys dropped their fishing poles and ran, shouting, back toward the village.

So much for the element of surprise, Frenchie thought.

It wasn't long before the boys came running back, followed by a tall man in his early fifties who was either some sort of village official or maybe father to one of the boys, along with a young woman about Frenchie's age. He would have been glad to see him, if the man hadn't been carrying a rifle. If Frenchie had looked closely, he would have seen that the stock was patched with tightly wrapped wire.

Not sure what else to do, Frenchie put his hands up.

"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded in French, pointing the rifle at him. Frenchie understood him well enough.

"Private Tremblay, United States Army," Frenchie stammered, trying to remember how much you were allowed to tell the enemy if you were captured. He wasn't sure if he was captured or not, but he kept his hands up.

"American?" the old man asked.

"Je suis Americain," Frenchie answered. In French, he explained that there had been a battle upstream, trying to cross the river, and his boat had been sunk.

“We heard the shooting in the distance.” The rifle wavered a bit. "You speak French."

"My parents are from Quebec," Frenchie answered.

The young woman stepped forward. When she did so, the man finally lowered the rifle. She looked at his leg. The trousers now sported a bright red stain the size of a dinner plate. He realized that not all of the squelching sound in his boot was caused by water. There was some blood mixed in, too.

"You are hurt," she said.

"Shot," he said. "It's just a scratch, though."

Frenchie stepped forward, but ended up staggering. The young woman caught him, or he'd have fallen flat on his face. The man handed the rifle to one of the boys, then took Frenchie's other arm. Limping between the two, Frenchie made it back to the village.

The villagers debated about where to take him, and they settled on the older man's kitchen. The house was simple and neat, and the kitchen was not all that different from the one in his parents' house, except for that fact that a framed portrait of Napoleon decorated one wall. Oddly, his parents had similar artwork, except their portrait was of Abraham Lincoln. By now, a few more villagers had shown up, crowding into the kitchen, wondering what was going on. From the expression on their faces, it was clear that he must have looked like a drowned rat. A wounded drowned rat. It turned out that he was the first American soldier that anyone had seen in this part of the country. The only soldiers they had seen were Germans, up until Frenchie had appeared, battered and bleeding. So much for being a conquering hero.

Frenchie quickly learned that the man's name was Pierre, that he was a widower since his wife had passed away three years before, and that he was the mayor of this village, which was called Ville sur Moselle.

"Where are the Germans?" he asked.

Pierre shrugged. "Here, there, everywhere."

That didn't make Frenchie feel any better. "Are there Germans here in the village?"

"Non. They are on the run now, thank God. France shall be free again! We have been occupied by the Germans for four years now. Our village was lucky in that it was too small and out of the way for the Germans to take much interest in it. They only passed through now and then, expecting us to lick their boots whenever they did." Pierre seemed to be looking around for a place to spit, but changed his mind and swallowed instead.

"Are you sure that you haven’t seen any other Americans?"

Pierre pointed at him. "Just you."

"That means all the rest are all gone," Frenchie said blankly. He had hoped that maybe some others had escaped downstream. "My entire unit. Wiped out by the SS."

"The SS are dogs." Pierre nodded sagely and handed him a tiny glass of liquor poured from a squat brown bottle. Frenchie wasn't sure exactly what it was — brandy maybe — and it burned going down. Almost instantly, he felt the warmth from the alcohol spreading through him. Dry clothes were produced, and Pierre shooed everyone else out while he changed. "Let us have a look at that leg," Pierre said.

The wound looked all right, but it was still bleeding. Pierre called the young woman, whose named was Margot, and the boys back in to help. Pierre sent the boys upstairs for a clean sheet, and Margot cut off a long 2-inch strip from the white, starched sheet to make a bandage. Pierre and Frenchie both studied the wound for a long moment. Frenchie had some experience with tending wounds. As a boy, he had helped his father, a veterinarian. He knew that the wound needed to be cleaned, and short of anything like sulfa powder, Pierre's bottle of liquor would have to do. It was likely that Pierre had treated their own scrapes and hurts in much the same way.

He nodded at Pierre, who shrugged and poured a generous dollop of the liquor into the wound. Frenchie yelped in pain and bolted upright in the chair. Nearby, the two boys were watching, and they winced right along with him. Maybe they were familiar with old Pierre’s cure-all for cuts and scrapes. "Crimony, that hurts!"

"That's brandy for you," Pierre said. "Good for the inside, and good for the outside."

The stinging pain took a while to subside, but he knew that Pierre had done the right thing to clean the wound, considering how muddy the river water had been.

Frenchie was beyond being self-conscious as he sat there in the borrowed underwear as Margot carefully wrapped his leg. Blood soaked through, so she wrapped it with another strip. When she was finished, Frenchie tugged on the borrowed trousers. His uniform was already hung near the stove to dry.

He began to shake, but not from cold. Again, he thought of the fight yesterday in the field at Dornot, the Germans ambushing them and then coming at them from three directions. He saw the lieutenant's face exploding all over again, and then the hole in Carl's helmet. His staring eyes. A sob escaped him, and he swiped at his eyes. So much for the tough Americans, he thought.

Pierre shooed the boys out again, telling them to go watch the road for Germans. When they were gone, he patted Frenchie's shoulder once more. "I was in the Great War," he said gently. "There is no shame in how you feel. No one who has not experienced it can truly understand. Not all wounds draw blood, but they are painful all the same. The pain is sharp now, but the edge of the knife grows dull over time."

Frenchie wasn't so sure.

Margot brought him a bowl of soup, which smelled delicious. He pulled his chair closer to the table. His stomach grumbled. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. But when he picked up the spoon, his hand shook too much to carry the soup from the bowl to his mouth. He clenched the spoon helplessly.

Leaning close, Margot put her hand around his and helped guide the spoon from the bowl to his lips. After a few times, his hand didn't shake so much, and he was able to do it himself. He became aware of how good Margot smelled. This was the closest that he had been to a girl since before joining up, not that Frenchie had a lot of experience in that department, anyhow. He caught the scent of lavender and soap. Margot smelled so good and clear that his head swam all over again. When he met Margot's eyes, she looked away, blushing.

Frenchie devoured the rest of the soup. The ham and beans and chunks of potatoes in a salty broth were delicious. When he was finished, he felt stronger already. He thanked them both profusely.

Pierre shook his head. "It is you we must thank. You Americans are fighting and giving your lives to liberate France. To free all of Europe from the Nazis. There is no way to repay what you are doing."

Frenchie had not thought of it that way before. "I will have to rejoin the Army," he said. "The trouble is, I don't know which way to go."

"You aren't going anywhere yet on that leg," Pierre said. "Another day or two and you should be fine. By then, someone will want to use that bridge. The fighting grows closer each day. The Germans need to retreat across that river. The Americans need to get to Germany. The question is, who will get here first, the Americans or the Germans? If it is the Germans, we will hide you. If it is the Americans, you can rejoin them. What do you think of that plan, Private Tremblay?"

“Sounds good to me.” Frenchie held up the empty bowl. "You wouldn't happen to have any more of that soup would you, sil vous plait?"