My French Whore

by Gene Wilder

  “Yes sir.”

  “They have at least one battalion two hundred yards straight in front of us, so how the hell did he get lost? Mostly we need to know what to expect if we attack. Clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’m making you an acting corporal, Peachy. If you have any kind of trouble with him—get the hell out! I’ll have someone stationed nearby. Clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  I saluted and sloshed my way back over the duckboards.

  FOUR

  WHEN I WALKED INTO THE DUGOUT AND SAW the prisoner, two things struck me: that he had taken off his muddy corporal’s uniform and was sitting on a chair in his underwear with his legs crossed—it was that his legs were crossed that struck me as odd. I wasn’t sure why. The other thing was how calm he seemed, given the circumstances. The two guards who had captured him were standing nearby.

  I placed the carton of food I had brought for the prisoner onto the table next to him, and then I dismissed the two guards. One of the guards, named Tom, called out to me before he left. “I’ll be right outside. Just holler.”

  The prisoner was bigger than I expected—I mean taller, because he was very thin, with straight, golden blond hair. I would guess he was a little older than I was.

  “Wie geht es Ihnen?” I asked. (“How are you?”) But he didn’t even look at me, as if I should know it was a dumb question. When I asked if he would like some sandwiches, he exhaled a short, “Ja,” still without looking at me.

  I sat down opposite him and watched as he ate two baloney and cheese sandwiches and drank a bottle of French beer.

  While he ate I talked with him, in German, for almost half an hour. I tried sneaking in a trick question by saying that our cannons were so loud, they always gave me a terrible headache and did he have that problem? But no matter what I asked, he only gave me “Ja’s” and “Nein’s.” I was feeling more and more foolish, when Tom, the guard, brought me my own supper. He set the tray down in front of me.

  “Here ya go, pal,” he said. “You ordered the coq au vin, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Lovely! Except that chef just ran out of coq au vin. But he gave you some great imitation meatloaf—says it’s even better than the chicken. Plus, he gave you a sort of cardboard cinnamon roll. Deelish! And here’s a nice hot cup of two-day old mud. Chef swears by it.”

  “I’m sure he does. I’ll be all right, Tom. You can go now.”

  Tom looked at the prisoner and said, “Call if you need me, Paul.”

  I tasted my food, but I wasn’t hungry enough to brave eating much of it. After the prisoner finished his second sandwich I held up a bottle of brandy, which was only half full.

  “Wünschen Sie noch einnen cognac?” I asked.

  He looked at me with a funny smile. Then he said, in perfect English, “You have a funny accent, Paul.”

  I stared at him, like a mannequin. I realized that he had heard the guard call me Paul, but to suddenly speak English, after I had just talked to him for half an hour in German ...

  “Was one of your parents born in Germany?” he asked.

  “Both of them,” I said.

  “May I ask where they came from? I don’t recognize the region from the way you speak.”

  “They came from Flensburg,” I answered.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” he said.

  “It’s near the Danish border,” I said, like a good pupil.

  “Ah! That explains it. Actually, I would like a little cognac, Paul. It’s very kind of you, even if they did tell you to loosen me up.”

  How does he know everything? A corporal?

  I filled a small glass of cognac, which he swallowed with one gulp. He sighed with satisfaction.

  “That’s better. Were you born in Germany, Paul?”

  Are you just going to answer everything he asks, like some sort of dummy?

  “No ... America,” I said, like a dummy.

  “Where do you live in America?” he asked.

  “You would never have heard of it.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  “It’s in the Midwest—a town called Milwaukee,” I said.

  He started to laugh. “Where the beer comes from, yes?”

  I nodded yes. He laughed again and said, “May I have a little more cognac, please?”

  I poured him another small glass and then finally got the courage to speak.

  “I don’t understand—you said you didn’t speak English.”

  “Was your father a schoolteacher?” he asked.

  What would Captain Harrington want me to say?

  “I’m not trying to trick you, Paul,” he said. “I’m really just curious.”

  “My father was a baker.”

  “A baker! Oh, how nice for you. What was your favorite dessert?”

  “Cremschnitten,” I said.

  He burst out laughing.

  “Cremschnitten! Oh, my God—I haven’t heard that word in a long time. My mother always made us say ‘Napoleons.’ I suppose it was a class thing.”

  Ask him. Now! Just ask him.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  He looked straight at me for several seconds, then smiled.

  “I’m a spy.”

  “For who?” I asked.

  “For whom? Forgive me, Paul, that was cheap. For Germany. And for Britain, too—or so the British thought—but really only for Germany.”

  “May I ask how you got caught?” I asked.

  “You shouldn’t ask me if you ‘may’ ask me. Your company commander wouldn’t like that. I didn’t get caught, Paul—I wanted to be captured.”

  I was even more confused. “Why?” I asked.

  “Because ... das lied ist aus,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My only contact in England sent me a short message, three days ago, which read: ‘The song is over.’”

  “I don’t understand anything that you’re saying.”

  “Someone in British Intelligence found out who I am. I’m sure they’ve told the Americans by now ... if not today, then tomorrow.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in Germany?”

  “Oh, it’s over in Germany. We’ll lose the war before the end of the year—they just don’t know it yet. You can’t imagine how stupid they are. And who knows what’s going to happen in Germany after you win the war?”

  “Are you changing sides?” I asked, hoping that I might get a real scoop to report to Captain Harrington.

  “No, I’m not. Sorry to disappoint you, Paul,” he said, probably because he noticed how much higher in pitch my voice had become.

  “Why did you suddenly decide to speak to me in English?” I asked.

  His eyes drifted away, as if I had asked him to explain a great mathematical problem. Then he looked at me. “Because I’m lonely. Could I have just one more cognac, Paul?”

  I poured him another glass, finishing the bottle. Then I said, “May I ask what your name is?”

  “I told you not to ask me if you ‘may’ ask me ... we want to get you promoted one day, don’t we?” he said with a gentle smile.

  “Yes sir.”

  “My name? ... Well, that depends. Before the war, my family owned several vineyards—only white wine, of course—you don’t ever want to drink German red, Paul. But when the war started ... because I was quite intelligent and spoke so many languages ... I became a spy. My name used to be Franz von Teplitz.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m an American. My name is Harry Stroller.”

  “Is that really true?” I asked.

  “Well, not really, no—although my mother’s name was Stroller and she was an American. You couldn’t possibly believe how famous I am, Paul, for a person hardly anyone has met. Just a few generals and one colonel, that’s all. Not even the Kaiser. No photos allowed. But everyone in Germany has heard of the great spy, Col. Harry Stroller.”

  “Are you German?”
>
  “Yes, I am. My father was German, and he wouldn’t have it any other way, despite my mother’s feelings.”

  “Are you really a colonel?”

  “Yes, I really am a colonel. I don’t mean to be impolite, Paul—you’ve been very kind—but I’m very tired. Unless you have some Schubert you can play for me, do you mind if I sleep a little now?”

  The prisoner lay down on the cot. Before he fell asleep, I needed to ask him one more question:

  “What will happen if I tell them that you’re a spy?”

  “After they interrogate me?—They might wait until the war is over and then let me go ... or they’ll just shoot me.”

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  ... “I don’t care,” he said, and fell asleep.

  I stared at Harry Stroller, watching him snore by the light of the single candle that flickered nearby.

  FIVE

  JUST BEFORE THE SUN WAS ABOUT TO RISE, A NEW guard, who had taken Tom’s place outside, rushed in and told me to grab some breakfast and report to Sergeant Krodecker as soon as possible. Two other soldiers came in and stood guard over the sleeping prisoner.

  I still had a piece of roll in my mouth when I found Sergeant Krodecker. He said, “They tell me you’re an acting corporal now, Peachy.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Good for you. The Huns usually attack us early in the morning, but not until they’ve had their breakfast, of course—stuff yourself at breakfast then think about killing. But today we’re going to attack first, and we don’t want to run into any tear-gas or mustard gas, so pick any two guys and take a look around out there. Don’t go beyond the barbed wire—just look for gas clouds. Clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  My two pals were sitting nearby, sipping their coffee.

  “Wally! Murdock! I’m supposed to take two men and go over the trench to see if there are any gas clouds around. Would you go with me?”

  Murdock said, “Yes, sir, General.” They both got up. We took our rifles, tightened our chin straps, and headed for the nearest fire steps, which we had to climb to get out of the trench. The sun was just starting to rise.

  “We can’t take more than a minute or two—we’ll just go up to the first barbed wire,” I shouted. When I saw that Murdock’s feet were on the fire steps, I hollered, “Okay, GO!”

  Murdock and Wally started climbing. I followed right behind them.

  Two shots rang out. Wally and Murdock fell back into the trench. I turned and saw both of them lying face up on the floor of the trench, with their eyes open, staring at me. Both of them had a bullet through the head. I stood there looking at them—I don’t know how long. A whistle shrieked and our whole company began climbing fire steps all along the trench, knocking me aside as they poured over the top and then ran toward the German trench. I climbed out of the trench and tried to keep up with the others, but I kept seeing the image of Wally and Murdock, surrounded by mud.

  The German machine guns started firing and our soldiers began dropping like flies all around me. I saw a small woods to my right, maybe a quarter of a mile away. I turned and ran for the woods, stepping over dead and wounded soldiers. When I finally made it into the woods, I dropped to the earth, hugged a tree, and began to weep. I could hear rifles and machine guns in the distance.

  After a few minutes, I got up and walked away from the sounds of battle and kneeled beside a nearby brook. I laid my rifle down and scooped some water onto my face. Then I took my helmet off and dropped my whole head into the cold water for fifteen or twenty seconds; then lifted my head and stared at the water, trying, but unable, to lessen the horrible realization that I was a coward. I was a coward, and there was no way to change that fact.

  As I was about to rise, I saw a reflection in the water of a row of German soldiers standing behind me. I turned and saw a short but powerfully built German sergeant, who looked like a wrestler with a pig’s head. He began shouting orders to the row of soldiers.

  “Get this idiot on his feet,” he yelled in German.

  Two of his men pulled me up.

  “This is the famous American soldier who has come to save the little Frenchmen? Put him up against a tree,” Pig Head commanded.

  The two soldiers grabbed my arms, dragged me away from the water, and shoved me against a tree.

  “Because of you we are supposed to be afraid?” Pig Head shouted. “You are the mighty American soldier who is going to crush us? CLEAR OUT OF THE WAY!” he yelled to the soldiers next to me. They hurried back into formation. Then Pig Head yelled, “Ready ...”

  The seven soldiers raised their rifles.

  “AIM ...”

  They pointed their rifles at my chest. The curtain is up, Paul... the audience is waiting...

  I don’t know where it came from—I suddenly screamed, in German. “HALT! IDIOTS!—PUT DOWN YOUR RIFLES!”

  Three or four of the soldiers were confused and lowered their rifles halfway. Pig Head went nearly crazy with rage.

  “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH ALL OF YOU?—SHOOT HIM!”

  I started walking, quite calmly, toward the sergeant.

  “You—Pig Head—come here,” I said.

  Now it was Pig Head who was confused. I shouted at him, “ASSHOLE! COME HERE, QUICKLY!”

  Pig Head didn’t know what to do. He started stuttering and sputtering. “But, but, what? But...”

  “Give me your rifle!” I ordered.

  The sergeant looked at the other solders, unsure of what he should do. I slapped him twice across the face. In reflex, he quickly handed me his rifle. I screamed at him, “Is this what you do when you capture an enemy soldier? No interrogation? Division? ... Battalion? ... Company? ... Officers? ... To what rank? Tanks? How many? Artillery support? Cavalry? Is this what we’ve been teaching you? To capture a prisoner and shoot him, without one word coming out of HIS mouth? You are a disgrace to Germany!”

  The sergeant was dumbfounded. His mouth hung open, but nothing came out.

  I turned to one of the other soldiers. “You, Corporal!—You’re in command. Now take me to your company commander, and for Christ’s sake— LET ME SEE A GERMAN SOLDIER!”

  After the corporal gave a command, I walked beside them as they all marched away, with Pig Head trailing behind, bewildered.

  SIX

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER I WAS WAITING IN THE hallway of a small castle. The company commander I was waiting to see couldn’t have been a very important officer because this castle seemed to be falling apart. The walls were gray with dirt, and there were tiny stone particles on the floors. A corporal had given me a stein of beer while I waited, which I much appreciated; but after only a few minutes he said, “Captain Simmel is ready for you now, sir.”

  Capt. Stefan Simmel was a short, ridiculous-looking man with a great capacity for nervousness, which I could see he was trying to hide under an exterior of great confidence; but his sweat gave him away. He was sitting behind his desk as he watched me approach. From the stupid grin on his face, I’m sure he thought I was an imposter. But he probably had to make sure.

  “So ... I have the honor of actually being in the same room with the great Harry Stroller. It takes my breath away,” he said. “Please sit, Mister Stroller,” he said, pointing to the chair opposite him.

  “I’m not Mister Stroller—I’m Colonel Stroller,” I answered, and sat down.

  Simmel walked around his desk and stood in front of me. I stayed seated. We were two or three feet apart.

  “How are you today ... Mister Stroller?”

  I stared at him for a second, then rose from my chair and threw all of my beer into his face. Simmel was drenched as the beer dripped down onto his immaculate uniform.

  “How ... how ... are you today, Colonel Stroller?” he stammered. “I hope you are well, I hope.”

  “Wonderful! How are you?” I asked.

  “Wonderful! I’m wonderful,” he answered.

  The phone rang and Simmel tried to wipe his f
ace and pat his uniform with a handkerchief as he answered.

  “Hullo ... Oh, yes sir, this is Captain Simmel speaking. Yes sir ... he’s here now, right in front of me. Yes ... Colonel Stroller! ... that’s what he said, sir. One moment, please ...”

  Simmel turned to me. “Col. Viktor Steinig wants to know why all of this is not going through code channels.”

  “Tell him ... because ... the song is over.”

  “What, sir? I’m sorry, but what are you saying?”

  “Someone in British Intelligence knows who Harry Stroller is. The Americans probably know by now—if not today than tomorrow. All contacts must be informed immediately.”

  Simmel repeated the information almost mechanically. As he listened to Colonel Steinig’s response, he became even more shaken. “Yes sir, I understand. I’ll tell him immediately. Thank you, sir.”

  Simmel hung up with a contorted smile on his face. “Colonel Steinig welcomes you, sir. An auto will take you to him as soon as you are ready. He begs you—and I beg you, too, sir—to just relax and refresh yourself, and perhaps you would care to bathe and put on a fresh German uniform?” he said, with an apologetic smile. “It’s more than an hour’s journey to his headquarters.”

  “Thank you,” I answered.

  “There is a guest room upstairs, sir ... my orderly will take you there. I think you will find everything you need.” Then he shouted, “Korporal!”

  The corporal ran in and stood at attention as Simmel gave him instructions.

  “The guard will show you the way. Is there anything else I can get for you, Colonel Stroller?”

  “Another beer would be nice,” I said, and handed him my empty beer stein.

  Forty-five minutes later I walked out of Colonel Simmel’s schloss wearing a colonel’s uniform, which was a size too small for me, and a beautiful hat, which was a size too big for me. I stuffed my muddy private’s uniform into some wrapping paper that I had requested. I didn’t want to give Simmel anything he could use if he decided to do a check on me. I put the package under my arm and walked out.