Tug of War

Chapter Nine

Didier Marmont, mayor of Choisy-sur-Meuse in the Ardennes forest, stood on the steps of the town hall heroically fighting back an urge to run a finger around his starched collar. His nervousness restricted itself to a swift twitch at the tricolore sash fastened around his comfortable stomach. Above or below? The bulge was making the positioning of his symbol of authority increasingly tricky. He glanced with a moment’s envy at the still-lean shape of the uniformed American officer sharing the steps with him. The man hadn’t put on an ounce since he’d stormed through the town as a lieutenant nearly ten years ago.

With the last note of the Marseillaise, following on the American national anthem rousingly played by the town band, their moment had come. Didier, the host, was the first to speak. He swept a commanding gaze over the upturned eager faces crowding the square and, as always, though he never counted on it, confidence began to flow. His voice boomed out, the grandiose phrases everyone waited to hear unfurled and he dashed a manly tear from his eye. Especially warm this year were his compliments to their US Army guests, the faithful band who returned year after year to the town that had welcomed them and billeted them. The last resting place of many of their comrades, the town was remembered with nostalgic affection but also with practical help. The Doughboys had come mainly from the same small place in the States and, on repatriation, had set about collecting funds to send back to their adopted village in France.

The results of eight years’ hard work were all around them as they stood in the hot August sunshine. The mairie itself, the school and the two bridges spanning the winding river Meuse owed their existence in large part to transatlantic generosity. And, in return, the French had built for the American dead the cemetery and monument they were on this day to hear the Colonel dedicate.

To the crowd’s claps and cheers, the Colonel, a career soldier, stepped forward to respond to the mayor’s introduction. Didier’s son-in-law. It hardly seemed possible. Then he looked at his daughter standing in the front row of the audience, proudly holding up her baby son to witness his father and his grandfather sharing a platform. Though how much a six-month-old could make out he wasn’t sure, and Didier rather thought little John ought to be tucked up at home in his cot, not sweating it out with the rest of them in this heat and noise. Didier had been overjoyed to see his first grandson though he had wondered about the wisdom of subjecting a small infant to a transatlantic crossing. America was so impossibly far away. He was always surprised that the people they loved continued to return.

His daughter was not the only local girl to be lured west by these handsome great fellows with their promise of excitement and an expanded life. The girls came back on their arm and you could pick them out in the crowd by their silk stockings, high-heeled shoes and pretty dresses. And, especially in his daughter’s case, Didier acknowledged, by her happy face. He was thankful to see it. Yes, Paulette was happy.

The Colonel spoke briefly in English and then launched into French to a rising cheer from the crowd. He knew the strings to tug at and the emotive words rang out with pride and certainty: l’entente cordiale, l’amitié éternelle, nos amis, nos épouses, nos confrères. . And he finished with a ringing reminder of the phrase which had been on all their lips ten years ago: Ils ne passeront pas! Ils ne passeront jamais plus!

The ceremony over, Didier made his excuses and slipped away. He hadn’t the energy to confront his daughter and her forceful husband again just yet. He agreed there were many advantages to joining his only living relations over the Atlantic but he shuddered at the idea of the long sea crossing and he felt faint at the thought of the effort he would have to make to start, in approaching old age, on a life in a new land. He fled to the Promenade down by the river. A walk under the chestnut trees would cool him and help him to consider his future. What remained of it.

As he strolled deep in thought a sound above his head distracted him. He looked up to see an aeroplane looping the loop, stalling and beginning to drop from the sky. A paper aeroplane. To the accompaniment of excited giggles from the branches of the chestnut, he threw off his dignity and dashed about like a music-hall mime artist, chasing and finally catching the plane in his upturned top hat.

‘Pierre! Alphonse!’ He called the boys down. ‘What a useless pair! You’ll never be aero-engineers on this showing. What’s this you’ve designed? A Blériot special?’

‘No, sir!’ His suggestion was dismissed with scorn. ‘We’re designing something that will cross the Atlantic. Papa says there’s a huge prize offered to the first man to cross without stopping. Papa thinks it should go to a Frenchman.’

‘Well, take the word of a trained engineer — this is never going to work. Look, why don’t you put a paperclip on the tail to weigh it down a little? And while you’re at it, think of refolding the fuselage. Like this. May I?’

Honoured to have the full attention of the mayor, the boys closed round, kneeling with him in the middle of the path, all eager interest. Didier began to unfold and smooth out the sheet of newspaper the frail craft had been fashioned from and stopped suddenly. His gaze fixed on the sheet, his voice stilled, his breath began to come in harsh rasps. He groaned and muttered something unintelligible to the boys.

‘Are you all right? Sir? Monsieur Marmont?’ Anxious, they looked at each other, startled by the abrupt change from bonhomie to distress.

‘He’s having one of his turns,’ said Alphonse. ‘Look, his lips are blue and he can’t breathe. Ah, yes, he’s clutching his chest,’ he said knowledgeably. ‘Seen my uncle do that. . week before he snuffed it. You stay here. I’ll run for my mum. She’ll know what to do.’

The rescue party, which included the local doctor, was soon at the spot. They found the mayor, breathing fitfully and in obvious pain, but still alive and, improbably, clutching the remains of a paper aeroplane to his breast.

‘He’ll be all right,’ pronounced the doctor to the worried crowd beginning to collect. ‘It’s his heart problem, of course. But he’s had this before and bounced back, haven’t you, old chap? And this time — you see — he’s smiling! Yes, he’ll be all right.’