The Bench

by Nigel Jones

  The path and steps down to the beach were steep and they walked in single file, a comfortable silence between them as they were both lost in their own thoughts. At the bottom of the path her hand sought his again and they fell into stride beside each other.

  Honeysuckle was ashamed. On the walk down she had allowed herself to imagine that without the baby he may be free of Yvette, and that she may have him back. The whole world thought she was so perfect, so generous of spirit, so caring. Yes, she was ashamed because she knew she was not. How could she have such thoughts when such a terrible thing had happened?

  She continued to walk, now in a self-conscious silence by his side, wishing she had not had those thoughts.

  Jacques suddenly brought her out of her self-loathing. “How is Simon?”

  “He’s fine, just fine.” She was smiling to herself, glad that he had changed the subject before she could become selfish again.

  Jacques noticed the smile on her face. Despite all that had happened he felt a pang of jealousy that the mention of Simon should make her smile. “What are you smiling about?”

  The sun appeared from behind a cloud and illuminated the kaleidoscope of colours that formed the rock face behind them. “Nothing.”

  “What sort of nothing?” Now he was smiling too. “You’re still seeing him, obviously.”

  “Yes, when he comes home.”

  “Still a good kisser?” He was teasing her now, like an older brother.

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, tell me. I know there is more to your relationship than just kissing.”

  “Okay then. He asked me to marry him.” She was still smiling as she waited for his reaction.

  Jacques stopped walking. “But, but you’re only eighteen, and only just that. You can’t….”

  She was laughing at him now. The look on his face was wonderful. Indignant. Hurt. Jealous. Yes, he was jealous, and she could see that the thought of her marrying someone else would tear him apart. Suddenly she was thinking, ‘I can have him again.’ Guilt followed.

  “What did you say? Did you say, yes?”

  Poor Jacques. He was distraught. Every other problem in his life had suddenly disappeared. All he could think about was losing Honeysuckle, and it showed. It was written all over his face for her to see.

  Honeysuckle relished his pain for a while before she put him out of his misery. “Don’t worry, Jacques. I will not marry him.”

  “Good. You are too young.” He looked stern.

  She couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing at him.

  “What’s so funny now?” He looked cross.

  “You, your face, you look like you are sucking a lemon. So cross and disapproving.” She screwed up her face into an imitation of his.

  It worked; he joined in with her laughter. “Do I really look like that? I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.” His face relaxed.

  It was Honeysuckle who looked serious now. “Yes it is. It is your business, Jacques. We are completely part of each other’s lives, and I love that you were upset at the thought of me marrying someone else.”

  She put her arms around him and hugged him, her head on his chest. She could have kissed him, but the time was not right.

  “So what did you tell him?” Jacques was still slightly perplexed.

  “Don’t be angry with me, but I said I would think about it. I won’t marry him, but he was about to go back to his squadron and there is only a fifty percent chance that he will return. Well over half of his friends are already dead or injured. I couldn’t send him away without hope, thinking I did not care for him. I do care for him, but I do not love him, Jacques. When the War is over he will see that, and he will realise his infatuation with me was born out of all the imponderables that war has brought.”

  She was still holding him and did not see him close his eyes in relief when she said she would not marry Simon. He knew only too well the pressures that Simon would be under and Honeysuckle was right. Even the belief that you had a chance of getting a girl like her would get you through the War. It was exactly what was sustaining him, how could he begrudge it to another man.

  She remained in his arms, as just a few hundred feet away a Spitfire roared over the Needles heading towards the New Forest. The unmistakable noise of its Merlin engine finally pulled them apart as they watched it fly past towards the sanctuary of home, where perhaps its pilot would find the embrace of his sweetheart. It could easily have been Simon.

  The poignancy of the moment spoke to them both and answered all the questions that did not have to be asked.

  After lunch, which included another mystery sandwich, Jacques took Buster down to the beach at Alum Bay. They didn’t go there very often, it was a steep walk down and neither was getting any younger.

  Buster liked the beach and remembered his own antics with stick and ball. For old times sake he had rushed into the surf before discretion overcame his valour, after a large wave had crashed over his head. Shaking himself down he trotted back to the man’s side.

  He hadn’t seen how brave Buster had been, the man just stared out over the Needles then turned his head slowly towards the New Forest as he traced the imaginary path of the Spitfire.

  TWELVE

  It was quieter today, fewer ramblers and more clouds than yesterday. Buster idly pondered the connection between ramblers and clouds, and if there was a connection between ramblers and sandwiches. But came to no real conclusions.

  The man was already on the bench, patting the space by his side. Buster made one last inspection of the area before putting his front paws up and waiting for the man’s helping hand. He was stiff after yesterday’s adventure on the beach.

  “Something different today, my little furry friend. Back to Vietnam, I think.”

  Jacques sat in the C19-Flying Boxcar with his parachute between his legs. It was November the 20th 1953, and Sophie sat next to him.

  “How long is the flight, Jacques?” she asked.

  “A couple of hours,” replied Jacques.

  “Waiting, we used to do a lot of that, didn’t we?”

  “Yes. It was always the worst time.” He remembered the times he’d lain in wait with Yvette for an aeroplane to land or a train, or truck that was to be their target. Sometimes they would wait for half a day or through the night. They would talk to each other to while away the time. He had waited with Sophie on many occasions too. She was great to talk to, always humorous and companionable.

  However, there was one conversation he had never had with her. One he had wanted to have since he had met up with her again in Hanoi. He had tried but she would always avoid it. Maybe here, going back into battle she would talk about it.

  “Sophie, I want to ask you something and this time I want an answer.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She saluted in due deference to his tone.

  He laughed. She always made him laugh. “You have never spoken of it, but what happened when the Gestapo captured you? As your friend I would like you to share it with me.” He looked seriously at her.

  She returned his look. “It’s no big deal, Jacques. One of the reasons I’ve never talked about it to you is because of what happened to Yvette. I did not want to open old wounds and it is in the past.”

  “No big deal! They shot you, interrogated you and left you to rot in a concentration camp. No big deal!” He loved this woman.

  “Okay. You want to hear it, then here it is.” She looked again at her best friend, the man she had also fantasised about for ten years. “As you know we had quite a gun fight with the Nazis, and gave them a good bashing. Pierre managed to get an incendiary device beneath one of those bloody silly little tanks they used. I picked each of them off as they leapt from the stupid thing. Unfortunately there were several more tanks just around the corner. It was time to leave; you and Yvette should have been well away, so we pulled back towards our vehicles. Remember that lorry Albert had, the one you guys left in pieces at the farm? That’s the one we were using
. Alain and myself were giving covering fire as the boys got in. We were to jump on as it sped past us towards a glorious retreat. A speciality of we French!” Jacques laughed. “I had one foot on the bumper, about to swing myself aboard when the bullet hit. I went flying, it just knocked the stuffing out of me. Next thing I knew, two rifles were pointing in my face.” She stopped, intending that to be an end to the story.

  “Don’t think you’ll get away with just that. Then what happened?”

  “Gestapo. Black Mercedes, 84 Foch Avenue.”

  “And?”

  She raised her eyes heavenwards; she was not going to get away with it. “They were okay. After what happened to Yvette I was expecting the worst. Beatings, rape and all that.” The tone she chose was light-hearted, but her eyes were darkening as she remembered. “A doctor removed the bullet and dressed my wound, along with all the scratches and cuts I sustained falling from the lorry. Then they put me in a cell, in some ways that was the worst time, wondering what they were going to do to me. Anyway, about two hours later they came and took me to another cell. This one contained some pretty horrid looking contraptions and manacles laid into the wall. I felt better. Would you believe that? I felt better. I could see what they had in mind for me. The fear of the unknown had gone.”

  Jacques sat riveted. Sophie was there in the cell once again. She had never before been so serious in his presence, and even now she was making jokes of it all.

  “Two men, one with those silly spectacles that they wore and one without, entered the room. At first they were nice, polite and respectful. They did not know my name. That was good, whoever had betrayed us, I assumed Henri, had not given them my name or description. I knew I stood a chance of convincing them I was just a minor member of the Resistance.”

  Jacques needed to know. He was back with Yvette, her dress torn and her body violated. “Did they….”

  “No, Jacques. They didn’t.” She knew what he was thinking. “They are not all sadistic bastards and perverts. It was as if they were ashamed of what their colleague had done to Yvette. Sure, they tortured me, but I told them nothing. I’m not even sure if they tortured me that badly. They seemed happy to accept I had no importance. Their cruelty was aimed at my conscience more than my body, they threatened reprisals against both our people and innocent civilians unless I gave them names and plans of future operations.” Suddenly she nudged him in the ribs. “See these baby-blue eyes, you could never imagine how many tears they are capable of producing. The poor little blonde, she’s too sweet to go around killing good wholesome German boys.” The last part she offered in a whining tone. “It was enough, and I think the one without glasses fancied me.”

  Jacques laughed. “I’m sure he did.”

  “So they treated me alright. I stayed there about a month. They fed and watered me and things were fine.”

  Jacques sensed a change in her. “What then?”

  “The one who fancied me came to apologise that I was being taken to Buchenwald the following day. I could see in his eyes that he knew what that meant, and I had heard the stories about such camps.“ She suddenly giggled. “I cried and begged not to be sent there. He took me in his arms and kept saying he was sorry but it was out of his control. He was genuinely sorry, the shit!”

  “Do you want to talk about Buchenwald?” Jacques had seen first-hand the horrors that such places had witnessed and the toll they had taken on human life.

  “Not really, what’s the point?“ She looked at his endearing, caring face. ”Oh, all right, why not? One last purge, for the sake of my soul.” She gave him a look that was intended to show her spiritual connection, but looked more like a spooked owl.

  “Bloody hell, Sophie. Don’t you take anything seriously? Doesn’t anything scare you or get to you?”

  “You do. Both, actually.” Jacques just shook his head. She giggled and then continued. “Seriously, Jacques, what more can I say? You know as well as anyone what it was like in those camps. You walked into Belsen on the 15th April, the day it was liberated, and visited many more of them with Yvette. You saw the full extent of their evil. I was lucky; I was only there for nine months. It was better than most, a holiday camp for resistance fighters and political activists! It never plumbed the depths that Belsen did, and I was not Jewish. I was tall and blonde, more Aryan than the vast majority of their vaulted master race. That helped me to survive, and there were guards who favoured me. Had I been taken at the beginning of the War, I may not have survived. Had the War continued, I’m pretty sure I would have been put to work in a brothel, servicing the pride of German manhood. Luckily for me they were on the run and no longer had time to amuse themselves with French whores.” She paused. “I was there, and you bore witness to the atrocities. Other people will make sure the world never forgets what happened there. It is not for you or I. We have dealt with it in our own ways and we must move on.”

  Jacques had heard her story, and he was not going to press the point. “What happened when you were freed? Why could we not find you? We tried, you know. We were not sure if you were alive or dead, but thought you may be in one of the camps and searched the records in each one we visited.”

  “It was chaos, Jacques, and I was sick. I was malnourished and suffering from a virus, probably mild typhoid. The Americans put me in one of their field hospitals. They were good to me, but it was still six months before I was well again. They told me I weighed just eighty pounds when they took me to the hospital. Now look at me.” She prodded her perfectly flat abdomen as if it was an obscene gut. “One hundred and twenty pounds of obesity!”

  Jacques looked at the gorgeous girl at his side, trying to imagine her as skin and bone, but couldn’t get past the curves he had always admired.

  “They healed me in every way possible, first physically and then a lovely married doctor actually administered to my mental state as well.” Jacques watched for a telltale sign of any misdemeanour that may have taken place, and sensed the slightest dilation of her pupils. She didn’t expand on the married doctor. “I ended up working with the Americans, reuniting the lucky few who survived the camps with their family and friends, as you tried to do for Yvette and her family. It was good for me, and part of my healing process. The fact that we never met, or were unable to get in touch was just fate. We worked for different people and in different camps, but some of our aims and goals were completely different.” She wished she had not said that last part. It was not meant to be judgemental, but may have sounded so.

  Jacques nodded in recognition of her final statement. She was right of course; their lives had taken different paths in the aftermath of the War. Those paths having been carved by all that had happened during it.

  “Don your parachutes, Madamemoiselle et Messieurs. Fifteen minutes to the drop zone.” The instruction heralded the end of their conversation.

  Sophie wanted to say one last thing to him. “I know you hated what she did, Jacques. Don’t, they deserved it.” She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Come on, mon brave. We will fight together one last time.”

  Sophie jumped first, followed by Jacques and the rest of the 6e Bataillon de Parachutistes Coloniaux. It was 10:35 am, and they fell through the moist morning air towards the jungles and hills of Dien Bien Province in the Northwest corner of Vietnam, close to the border with Laos.

  Jacques positioned himself by her side as they plummeted towards the ground. She was smiling, and probably laughing too as the air rushed past her. On landing she skilfully gathered her parachute and ran to the cover of the trees by the opening of their landing zone. Within seconds he was by her side. Others joined them and they quickly regrouped to secure the area.

  Sophie shadowed Jacques. Although armed like the rest of the Battalion, she also carried a camera. When their guns were raised in anticipation and fingers pulled the triggers, her camera took its own shots.

  Fascinated, Jacques watched her in action. He was sweeping the enemy enclave with the patrol he commanded, whilst she too
k photographs. Not of the enemy or where they might be, but of him and the French soldiers. It was their expressions, their fear and their bloodlust that she wanted to capture.

  They met little resistance. They did not expect any, the drop had been well planned and the secret well kept. They suffered casualties, but not many. Sophie’s camera paid particular attention to the wounds of these men. Jacques’s patrol encountered the enemy just once and had four kills. She took a few photos of the dead Vietnamese, but it was a nineteen-year-old French boy who had his throat slit during an all too brief burst of close combat, which her camera concentrated on. Jacques shot the perpetrator, but it was too late for the young soldier. She used two rolls of film on the dead boy and the blood-covered weapon that had killed him. She also took pictures of the perpetrator, he didn’t look a day over sixteen. Jacques had to drag her away to allow the medics to attend to the dead boy’s body. The camera became part of her, an extension of her eyes.

  It did not take very long to make the area secure. That night they set up camp on the perimeter of the airfield, along with the other patrols that had all secured their sectors. The next day they would take the airfield, it was now isolated and vulnerable after waves of French parachutists had been dropped into the Province.

  In the camp, Sophie once again sat beside Jacques. It had been a long and hard day. “Your photographs are nearly all of dead Frenchmen.” It was a simple statement from Jacques.

  “Yes. That is what France must see. What the world must see if it is all to stop. It must see its children dying on the other side of the Earth, just to claim a piece of worthless jungle.” She was looking straight ahead of her. “This is what I do now, Jacques. This is my new war.”

  “It is a good battle, Sophie. I hope you can win it.” She could hear the doubt in his voice, then he laughed. “It’s not exactly the glorious homage to French Colonialism the generals had in mind when they said that I could bring you here.”

  She laughed as well. “No, it‘s not is it? But you said it, they are fools and they are fighting a fool’s war. Can I win my war?“ Probably not, but I will try. I know the sword does not work, so I will remove the S and try what is left, the word.” She turned to look at him, his handsome face still camouflaged. She could smell the sweat on his powerful body, and sensed the raw strength of a natural hunter. A hunter totally at ease with the hostile environment his prey inhabited. Here, in this place he was a lion. The most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She shuddered as she imagined him taking her.