“Sorry, sir.” He really did sound sorry, too.
The other MP in the jeep, a PFC with his face in shadow, fidgeted in silence in the passenger’s seat, hoping to have no part in the reckoning about to come.
Just a short distance down the street and out of earshot, the rest of Fabiano’s group seemed to quiver in place, as if trying to decide whether to flee the MPs or just stand and watch the show unfold.
“I tell you what, Sergeant Dickens, Lamar J., I’ll do you a favor by not pressing charges if you do me one, too.”
“What’d you have in mind, sir?” He sounded tentative, like he knew he was trying to bluff with a very weak hand.
“Two things, Sergeant. First off, this man standing here with me and those other men over there—yeah, they’ve been drinking, but they’re not being disorderly and not bothering a living soul. Just helped me out in a big way, in fact. So I want you to leave them alone. If I hear that their balls got busted in any way tonight, I’ll suddenly remember your insubordinate outburst just now.”
That seemed like a good deal to Dickens. He nodded eagerly.
“Second,” Tommy continued, “do you know a place called Café Rimbaud?”
“I sure do, sir. It’s off limits to all personnel.”
“That’s too bad, Sergeant Dickens, because you’re going to escort me there in a couple of minutes, just as soon as I make a quick stop inside this bistro.”
Dickens didn’t seem as enthused with this second condition as he’d been with the first. Still, Tommy wasn’t very worried he wouldn’t agree; it was a hell of a lot better than losing his stripes or spending time in the stockade.
MPs don’t do real well in the slammer. Too many GIs in there with scores to settle against authority, and anyone who’d worn the MP shoulder sleeve is fair game for retribution.
This time, Dickens’ nod of agreement was less enthusiastic.
“Good,” Tommy said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
In a back corner of the bistro, three NCOs sat at a small table, enjoying an after-dinner smoke. They were freshly showered in clean fatigues and brushed boots, quite unlike the usually grimy condition of men in combat. Sean Moon did a double take as Tommy approached.
“What the hell, Half?” Sean said as he wrapped his much smaller brother in a bear hug. “I get to see you twice in the same week? You following me around or something?”
He looked to the other sergeants and added, “You guys remember my little brother Tommy, right?”
A master sergeant jumped to his feet and replied, “Can’t forget the best damn ASO we ever had, could we? When are you going to be joining us again, sir?”
Tommy didn’t say a word. The look on his face said it all: Not for a long time, if ever, I hope.
The other man, a tech sergeant, peered warily toward the front window. “We ain’t in some trouble with the bulls, are we, Lieutenant? This is all on the up and up. We’ve got twenty-four-hour passes.”
“No, everything’s fine with the MPs,” Tommy said as he shook their hands. “In fact, they’re going to help me out in a minute.”
“Now that’s a first,” Sean said. “The MPs helping someone. Oh, wait…I forgot. You’re an officer. You get away with all kinds of shit. Like that bike. That ain’t government issue. Where the hell’d you get it?”
“It isn’t mine, Sean. It’s borrowed.”
“So you could come looking for me?”
“Actually, finding you was a bonus. I’m trying to find Sylvie. She’s here in Nancy somewhere. I’ve got the name of a café where I’m supposed to meet up with her.”
“Wow! Ain’t that special, Half? She got a girl for me, too, maybe?”
“I don’t know…why don’t you come along and see?”
Sean threw down cash for his share of the bill and bid his fellow non-coms goodbye. Then the brothers headed for the door.
“Just one thing, Sean. This place I’m supposed to look for her…it’s off limits. So if you’re worried about—”
“Who gives a shit?” Sean interrupted. “I’ve got my little brother the lieutenant to protect me.” Then he shrugged and added, “Besides, it’ll be worth it, right?”
“Let’s hope so.”
With a theatrical bow and sweep of his arm, Fabiano turned over the motorcycle to the Moon brothers. As Sean hopped on the back, he told Fabiano, “Now don’t you guys go getting your asses locked up, you hear me?”
“Don’t worry, Sarge. The lieutenant here took care of everything.”
Tommy kick-started the Moto Guzzi. Yelling over the engine noise to the MPs, he said, “All right, Sergeant Dickens, lead the way.”
They didn’t have to go very far. After a few minutes’ drive, they rolled to a stop on a darkened street. Nestled in a block of clustered two and three-story buildings stood the Café Rimbaud. A dim, yellowish glow escaped from its windows, barely lighting the sidewalk. Only a carved wooden sign, small, weathered, and unlit, in the shadows above the doorway announced its name. Tommy thought, Man, I would’ve never seen that sign in a million years.
There was another sign stuck in the window. Handwritten and haphazardly installed, it read, OFF LIMITS TO US PERSONNEL, BY ORDER OF XII CORPS PROVOST MARSHALL.
Sean was busy locking the bike to a street lamp as Tommy dismissed the MPs. Those chores done, the brothers stepped into the café.
It was close quarters inside, dark and smoky, just as they’d expected. Something else they’d expected: they were the only GIs in the place. A dozen or so men and women—civilians all—sat at tables scattered across the floor opposite the bar. All eyed the Americans with expressions that ranged from curiosity, to annoyance, to contempt.
“What’re you having, Sean?” Tommy asked.
“How about a beer, little brother?”
“Coming right up…I hope.”
Turning on the français, Tommy wished the bartender a good evening. Then he ordered two beers.
As the amber brew flowed from the tap, Sean leaned in and whispered, “I sure hope your girlfriend is here, somewhere. Maybe she can stop these frogs from kicking our asses.”
“You really worried about that?”
“There’s a lot of them, Half. And the janes look tougher than the joes. Unless you think you can charm them with that Brooklyn French of yours.”
The bartender placed the tall glasses in front of them. Pointing to the sign in the window, he asked, “That does not concern you?”
“Not tonight,” Tommy replied.
“Well, soldier, I am glad to take your money. But what made you come to this place?”
Tommy replied, “I’m here to see Isabelle Truffaut. Please tell her I am here.”
The bartender paused, giving him a look that, if not exactly welcoming, was at least accommodating. “You are the moon man?” he asked.
Stifling a laugh, Tommy replied, “Yes, that’s me.”
Pointing to Sean, the bartender asked, “And him?”
“He’s a moon man, too. My brother, in fact.”
Without saying another word, the bartender walked into the back room. He emerged a few moments later, escorted them to an empty table in the corner, and said, “You wait.”
“All right, we’ll wait.” Tommy replied. “How long?”
The bartender just shrugged, as if the unpredictableness of women was something he had no interest in contemplating.
As he made his way back to the bar, there was a sharp exchange between the bartender and a few of his patrons. Tommy didn’t get all of it, only the bartender’s insistence that the Americans were invited.
As they nursed their beers, Sean asked, “Hey, Half…that big thing you were dumb enough to volunteer for. It happen yet?”
“No, but soon, Sean. Very soon.”
Soon. The thought of that made Tommy feel very good. Thanks to his brother’s twenty-four-hour pass, he might not be anywhere near Fort Driant when the Bucket boys blew it to smithereens.
The day
after tomorrow. Just so the damn weather holds out.
And then, maybe Sean—and a whole bunch of other GIs—wouldn’t have to deal with that damn fort anymore.
“And this thing…you’re not gonna get yourself killed or nothing doing it, right, Half?”
“Probably not, Sean.”
“You better not.” He shook his head and mumbled to no one in particular, “He volunteered. Can you fucking believe it?”
The entry door swung open. Framed in its arch was the silhouette of a woman in flared skirt and heels, backlit by the same street light holding the Moto Guzzi in its steely grip. The café was suddenly silent, still, and attentive, as if a magistrate had entered her courtroom. Tommy couldn’t see her face yet.
He didn’t need to.
She walked forward, the respectfully nodding heads of every patron rippling behind her like the wake of a mighty ship.
Sean whispered, “What the hell? Is she the Queen of France now or something?”
“Nah. I guess they just know she’s a real-live heroine of the Resistance.”
The brothers rose to greet her.
“You didn’t waste much time getting here,” Sylvie said to Tommy, delightedly cradling his face in her hands. If there’d been any lingering doubt how delighted she actually was, her deep kiss put an end to it.
“And isn’t this lovely?” she added. “Both Moon brothers in the same room!”
The kiss hello Sean received—a peck on each cheek, French style, delivered on tiptoes—lacked the passion she’d bestowed on his brother but none of the warmth. She was truly glad to see him, too.
Then, her voice low, she cautioned them, “Just remember, you must call me Isabelle in public.”
Before they could take their seats, she asked, “Are you both staying the night?”
When Tommy said they were, she raised a finger as if to say one minute and hurried to another corner of the café. She whispered something to a pretty young woman standing there and then brought her back to the brothers’ table, seating her next to Sean.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Delphine,” Sylvie—Isabelle—said. “Unfortunately, she speaks no English, so we must translate for you, Sean.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sean said, reaching for his wallet. “How much?”
“Don’t be an imbecile, Sean,” Sylvie replied. “She is not a whore. Now behave yourself.”
“Okay, then,” Sean replied. “Delphine, is it? Nice to meet you.” Offering his hand, he asked, “Is that her real name, Isabelle?”
Tommy kicked him under the table as hard as he could without being too obvious.
“Hey! Knock it off, Half. I’m just asking, for cryin’ out loud.”
“Don’t ask, Sean. Her name’s Delphine. That’s all you need to know.”
Sylvie smiled approvingly at Tommy. In French, she told him, “I couldn’t have expressed it better myself. I think you may finally be appreciating what life must be like as a maquisard.”
“What are you ladies drinking?” Tommy asked in English.
“Beer sounds wonderful,” Sylvie replied. She posed those same words to Delphine, this time as a question in French. When she answered with an agreeing nod, Tommy headed for the bar.
“Get a pitcher, Half,” Sean said. “Less trips for refills that way.”
Tommy was standing at the rail when Sean called after him. “Better make that two. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The night may have been long, but they only spent an hour of it drinking in the café. Delphine and Sean had quickly become enamored with each other. Their inability to communicate verbally hadn’t proved much of a hindrance. Their bodies were doing the talking.
Sylvie said, “She thinks you are very handsome, Sean. And so big and strong, too, just like she imagined the Amis would be.”
“So she thought Americans would all be big and strong, eh?” Tommy asked. “She’s not real keen on brains, then.”
“Oh, no,” Sylvie replied. “Not at all. She thinks you, Tommy, are very, very smart. Imagine…an American who speaks more than one language!”
“But big and strong is still better?”
She clutched his hand tightly and said, “Tonight, for Delphine, yes.” She kissed him and added, “But only for her.”
Sean and Delphine were paying no attention. What had begun as playful kissing had turned to full-on necking.
“We should all leave,” Sylvie said. “There are better places to make love than here.”
She led them all across the street and up a flight of stairs. The building’s interior was cramped and had the stale, dingy air of a boarding house. Maybe even a YWCA, just without the cohabitation police at the front desk. Delphine clung tightly to Sean as if they were glued together.
“Take this room,” Sylvie told Sean. “The toilet is at the end of the hall. We’ll be right next door. Have a wonderful night, Sergeant.”
Then, in French, she told Delphine, “Be gentle with the poor boy, tigress.”
Somehow, Tommy managed to keep from laughing out loud at her choice of words.
Once everyone was behind closed doors, he asked, “Go easy on him? Are you kidding? I don’t know how long it’s been since my brother had a woman, so I’m betting she’s going to be the one begging for the gentle touch.”
“You don’t know Delphine, Tommy,” she replied, undoing his khaki necktie.
Before they could get undressed—they were only up to removing their shoes—the sound of the bed next door rhythmically slamming against the wall startled them like gunfire. If they hadn’t known better, they’d have sworn there was an accelerating locomotive beyond that wall, effortlessly working its way to top speed.
They could actually see the wall moving in and out like some pulsating membrane. The picture that hung on it swung, shuddered, and then crashed to the floor. In disbelief, they pressed their hands against the wall to confirm what their eyes were telling them. But they pulled them quickly away as if that tactile confirmation was somehow intruding on the fierce lovers next door, who were managing to satisfy their desires without a single word necessary between them.
Amazed, Sylvie said, “We rejoiced when Nancy was liberated without suffering any destruction. But those two seem intent on changing all that.”
Then Sean and Delphine began to speak—shriek, actually—in two different languages, each surely incomprehensible to the other.
“YOU ARE THE MASTER,” Delphine announced several times, as if singing an aria in French. “YOU ARE MY KING!”
The pounding on the wall took on the intensity of a jackhammer.
“YOU’RE LIKE DIPPING IT IN A BARREL OF HONEY, BABY!” Sean testified. “I’M GONNA DRIVE YOU TO CHINA.”
That was more than Sylvie and Tommy could take. They collapsed on their bed, convulsed with laughter. Sylvie managed to ask, “Why is it funny when it is other people doing it?”
Intelligible words from the next room vanished, replaced by a duet of screams and grunts growing louder and louder, until suddenly there was a silence as thunderous as everything that had come before it, like the breathtaking, quarter-note rest just before the final, sustained note of a symphony.
After relishing the tranquility for a few minutes, Sylvie said, “I suppose it is our turn now?”
And then—with Delphine’s cry of ENCORE!—the uproar of sexual congress from the next room began all over again.
Tommy turned to look at that common, pulsating wall, but Sylvie pulled his face down to hers. “Ignore them,” she murmured. “This is our time, too.”
And for a few blissful moments, it was…
Until the sounds of a siren, the engines of large trucks, and men shouting in the street claimed back that time.
From the window, Tommy could see an MP jeep parked in front of Café Rimbaud. Three deuce-and-a-halfs were lined up in the street behind the jeep, with an MP on the running board of each truck. On the sidewalk, a big MP—Sergeant Dic
kens, no doubt—was loudly berating several civilians. The café’s bartender, who stood silent and defiant, with arms crossed over his chest, did nothing but shake his head.
Sylvie pressed up against Tommy to watch the drama unfolding on the street below, straining to hear what was being said there through the rumpus on the other side of the wall.
“They must be looking for me and Sean,” Tommy said. “That MP knows we were in there. Hell, he brought us there.”
“What are you going to do, Tommy?”
“Something big must be up. I’m going down there and see what’s going on.” He already had his trousers on.
“You are coming back, are you not?”
“I’ll be back,” he replied. “Just give me a minute to get the story.”
Even in the dim glow of street lights, Tommy could tell Sergeant Dickens was red-faced. He could see the deuce-and-a-halfs were full of pissed-off GIs, too.
“These frogs are lying to me, Lieutenant,” Dickens said. Pointing to the chained-up Moto Guzzi, he continued, “They keep telling me there were no GIs in that shithole tonight, but I know damn well—”
“Of course you do, Sergeant,” Tommy replied. “Now what’s the deal with the roundup?”
“All Third Army leaves are cancelled, sir. We’re to collect all personnel and return them to their units immediately.”
“Any idea why, Sergeant?”
“That one’s over my head, sir. I’m just following orders. So I suggest you and that tech sergeant you were with hop on—”
“Not so fast, Sergeant Dickens. First off, I’m not Third Army. I’m Ninth Air Force, so I guess your orders don’t apply to me, right?”
“Well…no, sir. I guess not. But that tech sergeant...I know damn well he had a Fourth Armored patch on him. That makes him Third Army.”
“That it does, Sergeant Dickens.”
“So if you know where he is now, sir, I suggest you tell us and my boys will go roust his ass—”
“Again, Sergeant, not so fast,” Tommy replied. “You recall our little deal from earlier this evening?”
Dickens looked at him suspiciously. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m forced to add another wrinkle to it.”
Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2) Page 20
