ANZAC Day

©2008 by: Natalie

Part 5

Lachlan didn’t see anyone other than Jean-Paul, Cecile and occasionally Lechat in the two weeks after the railway sabotage. Cecile was aloof and their conversations were short and impersonal. Jean-Paul was his companion more often, but his time was also limited. The Maquis were very active in the area and that kept the boy busy. But, after that first night when he returned from the sabotage mission at the tunnel, Jean-Paul didn’t speak again about his activities and Lachlan didn’t ask. His suspicions were that it was better that way for all concerned.

Lachlan’s injuries healed nicely. His shoulder was still a bit weak but the pain was gone. The ankle was completely recovered and he could walk without limping. In fact, he was going a little stir crazy cooped up in the house. He didn’t go outside for fear of being seen, so he remained indoors. The house had a large library, so if Jean-Paul was not around, Lachlan read the few English books he could find, even perused some French volumes of poetry, interested in the rhythm and music of the sounds he heard inside his head. He was sure they were romantic, beautiful poems, but grinned and accepted the fact that they could have easily been recipes for all he knew.

Late one evening, just as he thought he’d go mental with boredom, Lechat called him into the study. Jean-Paul and Cecile were there standing at the desk examining maps and speaking quietly in French. Jean-Paul looked up and grinned. “Hello, mate!”

“Ah, you’ve been around me too much, ya poor bastard,” Lachlan smiled. He turned to Cecile and kissed each of side of her face.

“And you,” Jean-Paul laughed, “you are turning into a Frenchman, yes?”

“Dear God, no!” Lachlan exclaimed in mock terror. “Anything but…” At that moment, Lechat entered the study.

“Well, here we are,” Lechat stated as he closed the door behind him. “Flight Officer Curry, it is time for you to go home. Cecile and Jean-Paul will escort you to the Spanish border where you will find transport back to England.”

Lachlan blinked, feeling the rise of his heartbeat with the excitement. “Thank you, Monsieur Lechat,” he said humbly. “I’m anxious to get back.”

“Very well. You will leave in the morning.” Lechat went behind the desk and rummaged through the top drawer. “These are your papers,” he said as he handed official looking documents to the three. “Cecile, you and Monsieur Curry will pose as a married couple. Jean-Paul is your brother.”

“Oui,” Cecile replied as she reviewed her paperwork as business-like as always.

“You will be armed, of course. Guns and ammunition will be loaded into the car in the morning.” Going back into the drawer, he pulled out a small box. “Also, you will each carry these.” He handed each a small capsule. “Keep it safe and accessible, but hidden well so as not to be found in a search.”

“What’s this, then?” Lachlan held up the capsule.

“It is a final precaution, Monsieur Curry,” Lechat answered, “in case of capture and torture.”

Bloody hell! Suicide pills? But it made sense, he figured and Lachlan nodded, accepted the capsule. “I understand Monsieur Lechat. And,” he added in halting French, “Merci de ma sûreté et de m’obtenir nouveau a l’Angleterre.”

“Vous etes bienvenu, Lachlan. You’re welcome. But, may I offer one suggestion.”

“What’s that, mate?”

“You do not speak. Your atrocious French is sure to give you away.” Lechat grinned and slapped him on the back.

Lachlan looked stunned for a moment, then grinned with a shrug. “I’ll be sure to do that, mate.”

~*~

The day dawned beautiful with a promise of cool breezes. Lachlan played the good husband and carried Cecile’s bag to the car, even held the door for her, handing her into the seat gently. But Cecile was a soldier, a hard egg who knew when and where to play the roles. She was not impressed so he simply slid behind the wheel and once Jean-Paul climbed into the back seat, they were off.

The drive was quiet and long, stopping only to eat a small lunch that had been packed for them before departing. As evening fell, they approached the small town of Oradour-sur-Glane, ready to rest for the night

Jean-Paul was driving with Cecile in the front seat navigating. Lachlan made himself comfortable in the back, admiring the countryside as it slid past. But, as they neared the town, he noticed a change. No one passed them on the road. No cars ahead or behind. There were no people working the fields. No cyclists. No pedestrians. The chirping of the night birds and the car’s engine the only sounds breaking the eerie silence. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he sat straight.

Less than a mile further, Cecile gasped. Rounding a hill, they saw smoke rising in the air; billows and puffs of blackness against a peaceful sunset that warned of ominous things to come. The buildings on the outskirts were blown out and crumbling and the evidence only worsened as the car moved toward the center of town. Lachlan’s eyes took it all in. Windows were broken, glass was everywhere. The contents of the buildings had been thrown out and were lying in heaps alongside the road. Cars were left parked, their doors wide open. Several buildings were charred, their stone walls left with large black streaks.

“Bloody hell. What happened here?” Lachlan gasped.

“Germans,” Cecile answered quietly, her face a solemn mask.

Jean-Paul stopped the car. “We should look for survivors,” he suggested.

Lachlan could not believe what he was seeing. Everything was rubble and they found no one to tell them what happened. It appeared that the inhabitants had abandoned their town to the enemy. But, when they investigated the church, what they found was far more horrific that anything Lachlan could imagine.

The large church had been burnt as well. As they walked through the small courtyard, Jean-Paul pointed out the myriad of machine gun casings littering the ground. Carefully, with their guns at ready, they opened the front doors. Jean-Paul went in first, stepping cautiously over the threshold. Immediately he ran back, pushed past Lachlan, dropped to his knees and retched. He gasped and vomited again and again.

“Jean-Paul? What is it?” Lachlan asked. The boy just shook his head and continued to gag. Lachlan turned to Cecile who was looking inside. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes wide in horror.

Lachlan rushed to her, pulled her back and stepped ahead, hoping to shield the nightmare he knew was inside. He held his breath, closed his eyes tight then slowly permitted the scene to filter through his lashes.  His heart shuddered and breath caught. Hundreds of burnt bodies, both adults and children. It appeared that the fire had begun in the nave of the church and spread. Cecile followed him into the sanctuary, stepping over and around the bodies heaped in piles covering the floor. Off to the side, a bright bit of color caught Lachlan’s eye. It was a small, singed rag doll that must have belonged to one of the children there. He picked it up, holding it in his fist. His eyes grew steely as he glared at the carnage. Who could do such a thing?

His lungs tightened and he began to gasp for air. Cecile followed him as he ran from the building and out of the courtyard. Standing at the crossroads of the town, he sunk to his knees, howled the cry of a wounded animal. “Jesus! Bloody hell! Women … children … there were BABIES in that church!”

Cecile watched impassively as he struggled to gain control of himself. Jean-Paul, who had been investigating the rest of the town, walked up to her and told her something quietly.

“What? What’s that?” Lachlan asked.

“Nothing.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “No worries, mate,” he added limply.

Lachlan stood and snarled, “Tell me.”

Jean-Paul looked to Cecile who merely shrugged and said, “Dites-lui. Tell him.”

“There are more, Lachlan.” Jean-Paul said. “There in that garage and there in the barn. More bodies. Men.”

“Why would they do this?” Lachlan hissed, shaking the rag doll in Jean-Paul’s face. “These weren’t soldiers! These were civilians. Women and children, dammit.” He threw the doll in the direction of the church.

Jean-Paul shook his head while Cecile grew even more remote.

Lachlan’s mind soared over everything he knew of war, of being in the hands of the French Resistance. Of what they did and how they did it. A realization dawned. His hands shook, his voice sounded like he’d been shouting for hours.

“It was you! It was the tunnel sabotage. YOU CAUSED THIS!”

“No, Monsieur,” Cecile answered. “It was the Germans that did this. Yes, people died here in retribution for that action and we will die carrying that guilt. But, many more people would have died if those soldiers and ammunition had reached their destination.”

Lachlan blinked. Was she human? Had she any concept of right and wrong? How could she be so callous in the face of so much devastation?

“We did what we had to do,” she said coldly, without feeling, without emotion.

The look of her sickened him as much as the mass execution around them. She could be as bloody cold as she liked … he could not. “Well, maybe so,” he spat. “But now we have to clean up your mess.” He looked around. “Jean-Paul, did you see any shovels? We should start with the people in the church.” Lachlan began to walk toward the church, but Cecile moved to block his path.

“No. We must leave. It is not safe.”

“We can’t just leave. These people need to be buried, woman!”

“No,” she shook her head. “We’ve already been here too long. We may be watched, even now.”

“Look,” Lachlan hissed. “I’m not leaving until we bury these people. We owe them that!”

Suddenly, he heard a click and felt cold steel against his temple. Faster than Lachlan could have imagined, Jean-Paul had his gun cocked and pointed at him. “Get into the car, Lachlan. It is dangerous here and I will shoot if you delay us any longer.”

Lachlan looked at Jean-Paul. Tears filled the boy’s red rimmed eyes, but he was not backing down. “Get into the car.”

“All right, mate. I’ll get in.” Lachlan looked at them with disgust. He couldn’t believe they could be so detached, so unfeeling. How could they just walk away? Looking out the windows as they drove from town, the countryside no longer held any beauty for him. And Lachlan knew they were right, that it was dangerous for them to linger there. But the knowledge didn’t make it any easier.

~*~

Night enveloped them and they drove miles from Oradour-sur-Glane, but the horrors they found there weighed heavy on their hearts and minds. It was a dark, moonless night. Exhaustion overwhelmed him and Jean-Paul could drive no further, he pulled off the road and hid the car deep in the thick trees.

“I’ll stand watch the first shift,” Lachlan announced. Sleep would not come easily to him that night and he wanted to stay sharp. Jean-Paul did not argue, did not even look Lachlan in the eye. He made himself as comfortable as possible in the front seat and quickly drifted to sleep. Cecile was in the back.

As Lachlan stood guard he watched her face through the window. Calm, almost serine. His original thoughts about her callousness slowly dissolved into something else, something he recognized in her, had seen in many of his own crew and other soldiers. Protection. She was shielding her own heart from the pain and he had to admire her for it. Jean-Paul too. So young to face war, to not only struggle to survive it, but to assist in any way he could. Cecile and Jean-Paul were worthy of honor and respect. They were right, there was no other way. They had to leave and leave when they did.

It was a quiet night, very still. He could hear crickets singing but nothing else. It was as if everything was in mourning. The boy slept fitfully in the car, turning and squirming, mumbling in his sleep. But he heard nothing from Cecile. He figured she’d fallen fast asleep.

He looked around and up at the stars. No moon, he thought to himself, feeling the weight of that emptiness. Then he heard it. A soft noise he couldn’t immediately identify. Alerted, he looked sharply around, peering into the night for the enemy. But, there it was again! Listening carefully, he realized it was Cecile sobbing quietly from the back seat, trying to be as quiet as possible.

He opened the door and looked in. “Hey, love, you okay?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He climbed in and reached for her, holding her close to his own aching heart. She leaned into him, hiding her face and sobbing into his shoulder.

“They were babies, just babies,” she cried. In her hands, she clutched the rag doll Lachlan had thrown in disgust. She cradled it against her breast and gasped.

“There, there, love.” He tried to soothe her, but how could he comfort someone when there was no comfort to be had? All he could do was hold her until she fell asleep.

Chapter Six