The Bench

by Nigel Jones

  Jacques noticed her almost imperceptible movement. “Are you alright, Sophie?”

  “No. I’m not. Here I am preaching about the horrors of war, and the damned thing just turns me on. I feel as horny as hell, and I just want to rip off your clothes and screw you!”

  “Everything’s fine then?”

  “Yes, but stop those bloody eyes twinkling at me.”

  At first light they took the airfield. They just marched in and accepted the white flag offered by the token force that remained, which no longer had an appetite for the fight.

  Later in the day the heavy engineering equipment arrived with engineers who proceeded to repair and lengthen the runway. The entire command structure was flown in under the leadership of a brigadier general. Several other support regiments, including a number of loyal Vietnamese arrived. By November the 22nd a fair sized army was in place at the outpost where the generals believed that the Vietminh would be drawn into a pitched battle they could not possibly win.

  They worked late into the night setting up and fortifying the new air base. There was little fighting apart from a couple of snipers they had failed to mop up the day before. Jacques took a small patrol into the surrounding hills to nullify these insurgents. Sophie begged to go with them and despite Jacques protestations she marched through the air base entrance with the patrol, fully armed with both rifle and camera. She did not use the rifle but the camera had a busy day, mostly taking photographs of Jacques, and later pictures of the two dead snipers. Jacques was good, better than she remembered and he had been one of the best in the Resistance. Now he was even more ruthless as he professionally neutralised his targets. She observed him as she had the previous day, a walking block of male testosterone, muscles and stubble. But from his camouflaged face his caring eyes watched out for her here in the hills of Vietnam, just as they had done in France.

  It was all too much for Sophie; she could not bear it any longer. That night she took Jacques to her private quarters and made good on her stated intention to screw him. He did not object. Neither did he object when she insisted he return the compliment.

  The next morning she awoke in his arms. The reality had been every bit as good as the fantasies she’d had over the years. It was done; they had possessed each other, each desperately desiring it. Though with that knowledge came sadness, a sadness that it would probably never happen again. They had something very special, a friendship that went far deeper than any sexual relationship, a friendship that must never be threatened. What they had done, had to be done, and it would add to their bond. But it must never be allowed to threaten it. For now she would just enjoy the moment.

  “Hello, Sophie,” he said as he kissed the top of her head.

  ‘Good,’ she thought, there was no regret in his voice. “Hello, Jack!” She turned and kissed him, pressing her breasts to his firm chest. “That was lovely, thank you.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I certainly did.” They both laughed.

  Jacques sat up and pulled the sheet from her body. “What are you doing?” asked Sophie.

  “Taking my own photograph in my head, so I will never forget.” His smile told her that he understood the way it had to be, and that he accepted it.

  “It was wonderful though. Better than I ever imagined. We will have it forever now, Jacques, and it will not spoil everything else we have.”

  “No, it won’t. But as we are here, and we are already naked, why don’t we…?”

  “Yes, one last time.” She giggled and pulled him to her.

  It was unsaid, but they knew it was almost certainly the last time they would have sex, so they made sure it was unforgettable. Something that in the years ahead they could privately relive whenever they met. It was a union that would never spoil what they had, a real friendship.

  “Now that was a better day, Buster. Proper memories.”

  Buster was glad, there would be an early lunch.

  THIRTEEN

  There was a chill in the wind and the man pulled the collar of his anorak around his neck in an attempt to keep it out.

  Buster liked the wind. It tickled his fur, and in particular the fluffy bits behind his ears. He positioned his head to maximise the ear tickling.

  Usually the man did not stay on the bench too long when it was windy, but today he looked particularly wistful so Buster wondered how long he would have to wait for lunch.

  Jacques was back in Normandy. After leaving Honeysuckle he had gone for a cup of tea with his parents and told them about the baby and Yvette, then he rode Daniel’s motorcycle back to Tempsford from where he returned to Normandy.

  Pierre and Alain met him and instantly fired questions at him about Yvette. He was able to say she was comfortable but still deeply traumatised, but she had finally spoken. They both took this to be a good sign.

  Within hours he was blowing up a bridge. It felt quite therapeutic after what he’d been through and he was glad to be involved again.

  The invasion was just months away and they were all immersed in preparations. As a cover he still supplied wine to the merchants in the region, but very little was delivered. Pierre, Alain and Albert had relocated to their friend’s farm. The arms cache had been lost to the S.S, along with most of Albert’s scrap yard. All they had managed to retrieve was the lorry that once again lay in pieces in their friend’s barn.

  Three weeks later Albert received a message to meet an agent who would be dropped that night at location ‘Five.’

  He went with Jacques to collect the agent. They flashed their torches and saw the solitary figure jump from the Lysander, the parachute silhouetted against the moon.

  They would have to get away quickly; the parachute could be seen for miles as it opened against the milky night sky.

  The agent made a perfect landing, gathered their parachute and ran towards them. Not stopping, the figure continued running to where they knew the vehicle would be. “Hello, boys,” the cat’s whiskers smiled at them as she passed.

  “Fucking hell,” Albert said, as he went off in hot pursuit. Jacques was silent; he stood for a second in disbelief then followed them.

  In the van she appeared perfectly normal, the old Yvette, as if nothing had ever happened. She even kissed Jacques before asking how the preparations were going.

  At the farm she hugged Pierre and Alain, then turned to her new host, Denis, and kissed him on the cheek. Jacques was dumbstruck. What had happened to the wreck he had left behind just a few weeks previously? In just three weeks where had she found the strength to deal with the loss and hurt that he believed had destroyed her? Jacques was almost in shock.

  That night she simply lay in his arms without making love. There was no question that they would not be together. Finally, as she snuggled against him in the privacy of their room, he was able to talk to her.

  “Yvette, are you alright? Are you really ready for all this again? It has been such a short time.”

  “I need to, Jacques. It is the only way I can deal with it. I need to kill them all.” That is all she said, and she said it with an unnerving calm in her voice.

  Jacques shivered. He heard the Arctic malevolence in her voice. He knew she had not dealt with her ordeal at all and her hatred was tangible, just a bandage over her wounds. He was afraid for her.

  The weeks that led up to the Allied invasion were manic. They lost far too many good men and women, but their lives were not lost in vain, France would be liberated. However, for every Frenchman killed ten Germans would die, a great many of them at the hands of Yvette.

  Each night the BBC would broadcast their instructions for the next day, all delivered in pre-arranged code, and all acted upon with devastating effect. The enemy’s command and control were crippled, much of it by the simple act of cutting telephone lines.

  One of the Resistance’s most notable successes was to prevent the German reinforcements from reaching Normandy. They either attacked them directly, or gave co-ordinates for the Allied aircraft to strike the
desperate German forces that were striving to reach Normandy to defend its coastline. The net result was that the Allies were to gain a foothold in the region after commencing their landings on the beaches of Normandy on June 6th 1944, D Day.

  During the next eight weeks men, artillery and supplies flooded into the region. Whole ports were built from scratch to replace the ones the Germans destroyed as they retreated. During that time the Resistance continued to be an irritation to the German High Command. In particular the S.S. Panzer Division, Das Reich, took enormous casualties as it struggled to get to Normandy from the South to launch a counter-attack on the Allies bridgehead. Due to Yvette and the rest of the Resistance it failed to get there in time. The Allies could now advance on Paris.

  The Resistance were not yet finished. In advance of this push, Operation Cobra, the Resistance continued to rain down a storm of destruction on the retreating German Army. The Allies would often find empty fortifications and dead soldiers where they had expected to have to fight.

  The Germans did put up some sort of resistance, but many lives were lost and within a few short weeks, on August the 25th Paris was free. The shopkeepers, barbers and solicitors, who took up the arms supplied by the Resistance, rid their city of the occupying force. Even the police force finally turned on the puppeteers that had manipulated them for so long.

  During this time Jacques fought at Yvette’s side. She was inspirational to all around her and her bravery in battle became legend. Jacques was the only one she allowed to see the bared soul that lurked within her, the soul so cruelly dismantled by the Nazis. The scarred and broken soul she no longer had a use for that guided her along a path of revenge and destruction.

  It broke Jacques’s heart to watch her. In their time alone together he attempted to rebuild their more intimate moments and tried to rekindle the flame of hope and love he had seen when she was carrying their baby. But the flame had been extinguished. The outside world saw the same old Yvette, but Jacques knew yet another part of her had died with their baby, and no matter what he tried he could not give that part life again.

  They kissed and they slept together. She promised that one day she would want sex again, but asked to be given time. Jacques understood and did all that he could to help her come to terms with her loss. Some days there were good signs; on others she was in deep despond. To Jacques, she seemed most animated when she took the life of a Nazi soldier. But even that satisfaction was short-lived, there would have to be another and then another. At times it just become indiscriminate and gratuitous killing. He tried to get her to see reason, but reason did not exist in her dying soul.

  Paris was liberated. They could have stopped the killing, and many did. They returned to their homes and their families in Normandy, Brittany and beyond. Yvette was unable to stop, she continued east towards the Fatherland with Jacques. There was still work for the Resistance. Now they had joined up with the Allies, plans and orders were far easier to obtain and they continued their guerrilla war against the crumbling army of the Third Reich. When that was finished there would be one last thing she needed to do.

  In his arms, the arms that had protected her and stayed by her side, she said, “Jacques, I know what you think of me and how you have tried to save me, and I will always love you for it. I don’t think I can ever put all of this behind me and be the person I was once was. More importantly, the person you want me to be.” Jacques tried to interrupt. “No, listen, my darling. You have been the one good thing in my life, and I have given you very little. You are a wonderful man and deserve far more than I can give you.” He tried again. “No, don’t speak. There is one last thing I would ask of you. I need your strength for this. With you there, I will be able to survive it.”

  Jacques knew exactly what she was going to ask. “Of course, Yvette. I will help you to look for your parents and sisters.” He also knew that when that was done, whatever the outcome, they would part. Their relationship had run its course.

  It was early 1945 and the German Army was all but beaten. The Allies were now operating inside Germany. The Russians were crushing them on the Eastern Front and had liberated parts of Poland. With that liberation came sketchy reports of extermination camps being discovered. Slowly the authenticity of the reports began to gain validation.

  It was Yvette’s worst nightmare. Throughout the War there had been rumours of such places, but never any confirmation of their existence. The people sent to them did not return to tell their tales. The Russians found six camps; the last one liberated was called Auschwitz.

  By this time Yvette and Jacques were working closely with The Allied 21st Army group and were deep inside Germany. The Americans had already liberated a number of camps in the west, Buchenwald being the one where Sophie had been incarcerated. Although they were not death camps, they were concentration camps and were places of appalling suffering that often led to death. The inmates the Germans imprisoned, included political and religious prisoners, criminals, deserters, shirkers and Resistance fighters. Rather than exterminate them, people were just left to die. Living visions of hell, packed with starving, dehydrated, disease-ridden prisoners.

  Belsen was all this and more. As the Russians continued their advance towards Auschwitz and the other Polish extermination camps, a great number of the Jewish inmates were marched or transported by train to camps within Germany. Belsen received an extra 60,000 of these poor souls in a camp that was built for 8000 inmates.

  On the 15th of April 1945, Yvette and Jacques entered the camp with the Allied 21st Army Group, not really knowing what they would find. The first sights were disturbing, but not unexpected. They were greeted enthusiastically by hundreds of under-nourished, thin, but otherwise generally healthy prisoners. One man even ran over to Yvette and hugged her. He had been rotting in the camp for nearly two years, and until his capture had fought courageously with her Resistance group. They both cried.

  It was a typical Nazi detention centre and they had been treated quite humanely compared to what they were about to witness.

  The Nazi, Joseph Kramer, who was handing the camp over to the Allied commander did not even have the decency to looked ashamed as he took them deeper into the complex.

  There was a camp within a camp. In this inner complex the full horror of Belsen became apparent. About 60,000 tormented Jews either existed in appalling conditions of starvation, with no shelter or sanitation in a cesspit of humanity, or they were dead.

  The camp authorities had long since given up trying to bring the inmates any of the basic needs to sustain human life. Disease was rife; typhus, dysentery, tuberculosis and many other diseases were at epidemic proportions and taking life at an alarming rate.

  As Jacques approached the inner camp his senses told him what was coming. He could smell the sickly sweet stench of decomposing bodies mixed with the foul smell of excrement and urine. He turned to look at Yvette. She was implacable, taking in all around her until she saw the human detritus. She fixed her eyes on some of the living first, the vast majority barely able to move, their ribs protruding through glass-like skin, distended bellies, like pregnant living skeletons, they barely moved. All heads shaven, they sat or lay on the ground in their own filth. Their lifeless, bulging eyes stared unseeing into a hopeless future.

  Slowly amongst the living she started to see the dead, almost indiscernible from those who still drew breath, they just lay where they had died.

  Every person who witnessed it was speechless. There was a ghostly hush within the camp, those dying were unable to make a sound, and the liberators were in deep shock. Jacques looked at the men around him, many were silently crying, others just stood, mouths agog.

  He turned again to Yvette; she was down on one knee stroking the bald head of a woman of indeterminate age. Her other hand held the arm of a dead girl, her fingers stroking the tattooed number on her stick-like wrist. Yvette was not crying.

  After what seemed an age the C.O. finally burst into life. “Water, give them water. No
w, jump to it!”

  The next few days were the worst days of Jacques’s life and they would forever haunt him. They found 20,000 dead bodies. While the camp authorities could still cope with the vast scale of the dead, they had stacked them into piles. Those who had died more recently just lay unmoving amongst the living.

  It was a medical nightmare. Everyone became a nurse in an attempt to keep alive the 50,000 survivors they had found. Those that had a chance of survival were washed, deloused then disinfected with D.D.T. powder. Makeshift hospitals were set up within the camp, where the inmates were given fluids and food whist attempting to treat the plethora of illnesses that were rampant. 13,000 did not survive. Many had starved for so long they were incapable of digesting food.

  Jacques watched a small girl eagerly take a biscuit from a soldier. She took one bite, but the shock to her body was too great and she died instantly. The soldier was distraught, he had simply wanted to help the poor child.

  Yvette worked like a woman possessed to save all those she could. She did not sleep or eat for three days. Eventually one of the doctors insisted she take a sleeping pill and rest. Five hours later she was back in the ward, willing the dying to live. Soon she found yet another way to help.

  In order to contain the spread of typhus, 20,000 diseased corpses needed burying. She suggested to the C.O. that the surrendered S.S. guards be made to carry the bodies to the mass graves that the bulldozers had dug, as punishment for their crimes. There was not a man in the army who did not think it a good idea. The Nazi guards were not allowed masks or any basic protection, and consequently a number of them contracted typhus and died.