Love for a Soldier

by Mary Jane Staples

Lutargne was not a village of great importance, but it did boast a fifteenth-century church, some seven hundred inhabitants and a little textile factory that produced fine linens like batiste from the local flax. There was also a pleasant, well-kept auberge situated in the middle of the sloping, cobbled main street, with a spacious carriage yard at the rear. The only Germans resident in the village were those whose duty it was to ensure maximum output at the factory, and to see it correctly packed for dispatch to the Fatherland.

  It was dusk when Captain Marsh, wearing a German Army greatcoat and helmet, walked up the street accompanied by Sophia. They had left the car tucked out of sight in a small wood fifty metres outside the village.

  ‘You are carrying this to impossible extremes,’ said Sophia, whose body felt tired and whose soul felt bruised.

  ‘I need your car, Sophia, and you to drive it. With it, we’ll both get safely to Douai. I thought we both understood that.’

  ‘I’ve understood nothing,’ said Sophia. ‘All your actions have been incomprehensible to me. You are actually going to the bistro?’

  ‘Yes. I’m starving, and you must be too.’

  She was. And in her weariness, she was also in need of a bed. Food was possible, perhaps, but not a bed. She was sure Captain Marsh meant to drag her on through the night.

  ‘When are you going to release me?’ she asked, as the village inn came in sight.

  ‘After we’ve crossed the main road late tonight and reached the outskirts of Douai. That’s not so bad, is it?’

  Sophia breathed in relief.

  ‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ she said in her tiredness. ‘If you’ll promise to keep your word, and if we can get some food at this place, I’ll say nothing while we’re there.’

  ‘I give you my promise. Your offer is very agreeable.’

  ‘I don’t feel at all agreeable, only tired and disillusioned. I thought all flying officers were honourable men.’

  ‘Sometimes, survival is more important than honour. Here we are. Let’s go in.’

  They entered the wine bar of the inn. It had a welcoming air with its tables and chairs. On the left of the serving counter was a door. Behind the counter was another one, shelves on either side full of bottles and glasses. The counter was polished and the tables were clean, a sign of the proprietor’s respect for his establishment and his customers. There was only one customer, an old white-haired man sipping a glass of cognac diluted with soda water. He was muttering to himself and did not raise his eyes to the newcomers. Looking inwards, his muttering was directed at the ingratitude of his family.

  ‘Sit here,’ said Captain Marsh, guiding Sophia to a table at the farthest point from the old man. As Sophia sat down, the door behind the counter opened and the proprietor appeared. Captain Marsh approached him. The proprietor, middle-aged and with a dark moustache, had the friendly eyes of a man naturally receptive to customers. They became curious at the sight of the disguised British pilot. Captain Marsh smiled.

  ‘Bonjour,’ said the proprietor politely.

  ‘Bonjour, my friend,’ said Captain Marsh, and leaned over the counter to murmur. ‘I’m a British flying officer on the run, and I think you’re Pierre Gascoigne. I was recommended to you.’

  ‘I am Pierre Gascoigne,’ said the proprietor. ‘I did not catch the rest. I’m hard of hearing. Wait, please.’

  He disappeared through the door. Captain Marsh kept his eye on Sophia. She sat quietly. An elderly lady appeared, clad in high-necked black. She took a good look at Captain Marsh, her grey eyes shrewd.

  ‘So,’ she murmured, and he smiled. Sophia saw the smile. It made him look warm and friendly. She was unable to hear the soft-spoken conversation that followed, with English being used.

  ‘I’m Captain Marsh of the RFC. I was shot down this morning.’

  ‘So you are the one the Boche are chasing,’ said the elderly lady, whose hair was grey, soft and bunned. ‘They’ve been here, men from the German Air Force, and German soldiers too. The soldiers are most anxious to catch you, and the young lady with you. She’s French?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Captain Marsh.

  ‘My son tells me that’s a German private’s coat you’re wearing.’

  ‘Yes. A farmer gave it to me. He recommended I call here.’

  ‘My son also mentioned you were wearing your brown boots.’ She smiled. She was satisfied. His speech was undoubtedly that of an Englishman. And his description tallied with that given by a German Army lieutenant who had called earlier with his men. So did the young lady’s. ‘You must go to Douai. We’ll give you an address. But you’ll need black boots. We’ll find you a pair. What else do you want?’

  ‘Food, if possible, Madame.’ Captain Marsh glanced at the old man.

  ‘We can manage a little food,’ said Madame Gascoigne, ‘and you needn’t worry about old Henri.’

  ‘Is there a room you could let us use?’

  ‘There are rooms we have for guests,’ she said. ‘One can be made available, and we’ll serve the food there. Go through that door.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said warmly.

  ‘I love France, which has been my home for many years, but I haven’t forgotten England.’

  Captain Marsh turned and beckoned Sophia. She rose and accompanied him through the door to the left of the bar. They entered a passage and waited.

  ‘What were you talking about?’ she asked.

  ‘About food and a room we can use.’

  ‘I shan’t complain.’ She was still proud, still very cool, but willing to make no fuss on the promise of being released.

  A girl appeared, a white apron front over her neat black dress, her smooth black hair parted down the middle, her eyes full of darting interest. Captain Marsh, the helmet off, smiled at her.

  ‘If you please?’ she said, her voice soft and lilting. She led them through the passage, then turned and climbed a narrow flight of stairs. They followed her. On a long landing, with doors on either side, she entered a room. It looked cosy with its low ceiling and small windows. The girl lit a candle lamp. Sophia saw an iron and brass bed, two chairs, a mahogany wardrobe, a small table, a washstand and a fireplace.

  She said, ‘The bathroom, mademoiselle?’

  ‘This way, if you please,’ said the girl, daughter of Pierre Gascoigne.

  Captain Marsh could only watch as Sophia followed the girl out to the bathroom at the end of the landing. He heard them exchange a few words. He went to the door and looked. Sophia was disappearing into the bathroom. The girl returned.

  ‘The food will come in a few moments, m’sieur,’ she said, and eyed him with quick interest again. He looked bravely strong to her. ‘Oh, many good wishes,’ she whispered breathlessly, and walked to the stairs. He thought, coming from a French girl, the remark could be related as much to his romantic prospects with the ravishing young German lady as to his chances of escape, especially as everyone thought her French.

  He waited in the room leaving the door open. The girl came back again carrying a towel. He heard her knock on the bathroom door. It opened, and Sophia took the towel with a murmur of thanks. The girl went downstairs again. Captain Marsh sat on the edge of the bed feeling drained. He had been living on his nerves from the moment he found Richtofen’s red Albatros on his tail and impossible to shake off. The crash-landing and the long hours of flight that had followed had taken their toll. But he needed to stay alert. The spirited German girl would vanish, given the smallest chance, and pay him out by informing extensively on him. Douai as the objective could be discounted then.

  It was some time before he heard the bathroom door open and the sound of her footsteps on the landing. Not putting it past her to head for a rapid flight down the stairs, he tensed for action. But she came in through the open door of the bedroom, her tired look lifted by her ablutions and new make-up. Refreshed, with her coat over her arm and her hat in her hand, she was a creature of bright fairness, her hair a mass of pale gold. A dress of fine silver-grey wool
draped her curving figure.

  His eyes flickered. He could not deny she was beautiful.

  Sophia, who had examined the bathroom window and found it too small to allow her to climb out, placed her hat and coat on the bed and sat down on a chair beside the fireplace. Outside, dusk was turning to darkness. A lamp cast faint light over the carriage yard.

  Captain Marsh rubbed a hand over his chin and felt the oncoming bristles. He looked at his hand. It was grubby. His other hand was swollen, the broken finger painful.

  ‘There’s no need to sit watching me,’ said Sophia, ‘you can wash too, if you like. The girl brought a razor as well as a towel, saying you might wish to use it.’

  Someone had been shrewd enough to recognize that German soldiers did not go around with an unshaven look. But he distrusted Sophia’s cool tones. He could not afford to let her vanish, not yet. Not until he had made contact in Douai with the kind of people who could outwit a German search for him in the town. Madame Gascoigne had said she would give him an address. And that address he had to reach before Sophia von Feldermann helped to ring the alarm bells. No, he could not yet afford to let her go. Running around on his legs was not his idea of elusive mobility. He saw a key in the room door.

  ‘I’ll wash, then,’ he said. He extracted the key and locked the door from the outside. He enjoyed a quick shave and wash, listening the while for the sounds of someone coming up with the promised food. When he rejoined Sophia she spoke coldly.

  ‘You locked me in.’

  ‘It’s the circumstances.’

  ‘I might have climbed out of that window,’ she said, ‘did you think of that?’

  ‘It’s too far from the ground.’

  ‘But I might have risked it,’ she said. ‘After all, you might not keep your promise to release me. Has it occurred to you that I have parents and friends who care for me? Has it occurred to you that in forcing me to stay with you, you must be causing them worry and distress?’

  ‘The fortunes of war affect us all, Sophia. I don’t doubt that the news I’ve been shot down will distress the people who care for me.’

  Sophia, at her coolest, said, ‘Are there people who care for you? You are hardly the most likeable of men. Even your wife must have discovered that.’

  ‘She hasn’t, not yet. I’m not married.’

  Footsteps sounded, followed by a knock on the door. Captain Marsh, still in his greatcoat, opened the door, and the French girl, Josephine Gascoigne, entered with a smile and a laden tray. On the tray were two large bowls of hot onion soup covered with melted cheese, a dark-grained loaf and a little pot containing extra cheese. Bone-handled cutlery lay on snowy napkins. Josephine set the tray down on the little table.

  ‘It isn’t very much, but is all we can supply,’ she said.

  ‘It’s splendid,’ said Captain Marsh.

  ‘Thank you, mademoiselle,’ said Sophia, to whom the smell of the soup was heavenly. She brought her chair to the table. Pierre Gascoigne appeared outside the door, and Captain Marsh quickly approached him. The proprietor handed over a pair of black boots and a small slip of paper, containing a name and address in Douai.

  ‘Read it, remember it and destroy it,’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ said Captain Marsh.

  ‘Bon appetit,’ said Josephine, coming out of the room. She and her father left, Captain Marsh closed the door, put the boots down under the bed and drew up the second chair to join Sophia at the table. He slipped off the greatcoat before sitting down.

  Sophia silently distributed the food and put the tray aside. Captain Marsh carved up the loaf. Hungrily, they attacked the bread and soup. Again there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Just a moment,’ called Captain Marsh. He stood up and put the greatcoat back on. To appear before any of the family in his RFC uniform and to have them make no comment, would tell the German girl they were aware he was British. That might mean she would advise German authorities that the Gascoigne family collaborated with Allied servicemen on the run. They could be shot for that. Sophia von Feldermann could not be expected to behave other than as a loyal German. At the same time, he could not disclose to the Gascoignes who she was. The fat would be in the fire if he did. ‘I’d better not let anyone know I’m British,’ he said casually as he went to the door. Madame Gascoigne, the proprietor’s mother, was outside. She entered with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She placed the glasses on the table.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’ she said to Sophia.

  Sophia was tempted to tell everything then. But she had made a promise, and although she had made it in a moment of weariness, it was still a promise. So she only said, ‘Thank you, madame.’

  Madame Gascoigne filled both glasses, then looked at Captain Marsh. He hoped she would make no revelations.

  ‘You may use the room to rest for a while, if you wish,’ she said, and made her exit silently, leaving the bottle of wine on the table.

  ‘Rest? What did she mean?’ Sophia was both curious and suspicious. ‘Doesn’t she think it strange, a German soldier coming here in search of food and a room?’

  ‘Oh, she looks upon you as my French lady friend. She understands, naturally, that we need to be discreet because the citizens will disapprove of your affection for me.’ And Captain Marsh resumed his meal.

  Sophia regarded him with cold contempt.

  ‘These people here, they really think you’re a German soldier?’ she said.

  ‘They haven’t said they think I’m not,’ he said, and she noted how he had kept the long greatcoat buttoned to the neck. It showed nothing of his flying clothes. Only his boots were visible.

  ‘You can’t face up to telling them the truth, can you? You can’t face up to the disgust they’d feel at your behaviour, even though they’re your allies.’

  ‘I’m worried, Sophia, that you’ll be tempted into telling them yourself,’ said Captain Marsh.

  ‘I am very tempted,’ said Sophia, ‘but I made you a promise. In any case, these people are being very kind. They have found us food and given us this room. If I told them who I was and why I arrived here with you, I should place them in a terrible position. I prefer to rely on your promise to release me.’

  ‘Thank you. Finish your food.’

  Sophia went back to her bread and soup. He observed her. He saw the faint spots of colour on her cheeks, indicative of the anger that had persistently simmered all day. He took a piece of the dark bread, applied soft cheese to it and devoured it with relish. The lamp cast its small amount of light. Sophia drained her glass of wine. He refilled it.

  ‘When do we leave here?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll wait a while,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait until the Germans, apart from their patrols, are in their barracks.’

  ‘It will make no difference in the end, you know, whether you escape or not,’ she said. ‘You will lose the war. Germany will drive you and the French into the sea. We did not ask for this war, nor did we want it. You are the aggressors and will finish up as the losers.’

  ‘What am I hearing, a cry from the heart of the innocent and the aggrieved?’ said Captain Marsh. ‘How upsetting to be so misjudged.’

  ‘You will never conquer Germany,’ said Sophia firmly. ‘General Ludendorff will break your armies apart.’

  ‘Oh?’ Captain Marsh looked interested. ‘Will he? When?’

  Sophia, instantly regretting her words, said casually, ‘I’m simply speaking of the inevitable. You have no leaders to equal Field Marshal Hindenburg and General Ludendorff. Nor,’ she added pointedly, ‘have you any flyer to match Baron von Richtofen.’

  ‘Don’t remind me of that, Sophia.’ He watched her sipping her wine. ‘You and I will never come to any agreement about the war, of course. But how will Ludendorff break the French and British Armies apart? Has he confided in you? You are, after all, the daughter of a general.’

  He was smiling at her, and Sophia became distant.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said, ‘and shal
l lie down until you are ready to drag me back to the car.’

  “Do that, by all means,’ he said. ‘I’ll wake you when it’s time.’

  She got up and stretched out on the bed. Her body became languorous with the comfort of rest. Her lashes drooped. She eyed him sleepily. Seated at the little table, he was pouring himself more wine. She wondered just how safe she was from him. Her eyes closed. Instinct made them open again a moment later. He was standing beside the bed, the greatcoat in his hands, his expression speculative as he gazed down at her. Her limbs froze at his sudden movement. The greatcoat descended, covering her.

  ‘To make up a little for my unpleasantness,’ he said.

  The room was cold now and the coat was warm.

  ‘Keep away from me, please,’ she said.

  He retired to a window, taking a chair with him. The lamp candle burned steadily. Sophia’s eyes closed again.

  Chapter Eight

  IT WAS DARK and cold. Elissa parked the staff car in the carriage yard at the rear of the inn. She and Major Kirsten alighted.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You deserve what I hope is available here, some food and wine. But shall we start with a cognac to warm our noses?’

  ‘Major, is my nose pink?’

  ‘I can’t say. The light is too dim. However, cognac would be welcome, don’t you think?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Elissa.

  ‘We’ll ask no questions, not at first.’ Major Kirsten glanced around the yard. There were no other vehicles. He surveyed the rear of the establishment. A faint light showed at a curtained window. ‘I wonder if they have a telephone here? I’d like to contact Colonel Hoffner, to find out if the English lunatic has been caught yet with Sophia. If not, we are on our own, Elissa. The official search parties will have retired until morning. Come along.’

  They walked to the front entrance and went in. Lamps were alight and several tables occupied. The villagers looked up, then returned, blank-faced, to their wine and dominoes. Major Kirsten smiled. Elissa looked composed, hiding the sense of excitement that had been with her all day.

  Behind his counter, Pierre Gascoigne received the new customers politely, and answered Major Kirsten’s enquiry regarding cognac with a courteous nod. He poured two measures. Elissa and the major took the glasses gratefully. She sipped hers. The major let a little of the cognac linger for a moment on his palate, then drained his glass.