“How the Mighty” Chapter 18 — Olivier

Liberation

The price of freedom

People wondered why priests never married, Olivier thought as he kept a rhythm with Arthéme’s panting mother. Why not have a partner, a helpmeet, a confidant, a recipient for all the human needs?

Those people never had a flock to tend, was the simple answer. He smiled. What priest had time — or space in his thoughts — for a wife?

He could increase his pace, if he wished, race ahead, get there before her, leave her puffing and alone, but she needed him, and they both knew that his men, pounding down the lane, would do whatever was needful.

“We must hurry,” she gasped. “What if we are too late? Arthéme is a good girl, she …”

Not as good as you imagine, Olivier thought, but who was?

“Hush,” he said. “The Heavenly Father has his gaze upon her. She will be safe.”

A confident prediction. Unless that fat Feldwebel had more in him than appeared on the surface, he was never going to limp away from the fighters who were even now turning through the gate ahead of them. “Look! Jacques and Michel are there already. She is safe.”

He slowed down, and they dropped to a walk. They both said nothing. Neither as young as they had once been. But more dignified, surely. Let the youngsters run ahead; they had more energy.

A shot rang out. Two shots.

Olivier frowned. There were things that must be done, and if his men were too hasty, the Lord above would not be happy.

Arthéme’s mother clutched at her breast. “What if that pig has shot them? What if he shoots us as well?”

“Then we will stand together before the Heavenly Father,” Olivier said, “and who can be afraid of such glory?”

Perhaps it is the Americans, he thought. If the rats like Bock were running, the hounds could not be too far behind.

The noise from the beach had not ceased since the dawn hours, but it had changed in tone. No longer a continuous roar, it was sharper, more distinct. Sometimes it settled down, sometimes there were peaks.

But those shots had been close.

In the farmyard, there were five people waiting. Jacques and Michel, holding weapons aimed at Rudi, slumped against the stone water trough, and Bock, sprawled moaning on the gravel. Arthéme stood by the door, crying.

Her mother rushed to her, holding her close as the sobs subsided.

“This pig,” Jacques said, “was pawing at the girl. And this one…” He gave Bock a kick, who opened his mouth to spit out a tooth, “…was lying on the floor looking like a piece of shit.”

“And there’s a dead dog inside,” said Michel.

“None of them are telling the same story. He…” Jacques indicated Rudi, “…says the girl smashed the sergeant with a bottle of wine. And she says it was him.”

“With a rifle. There is red wine and glass and blood all over the kitchen,” Michel added.

“Give me a few seconds,” Olivier said, dipping his hand in the water of the trough, “and the sergeant may find peace. The other I must take more time with; he is a Christian and he has a soul.”

He sprinkled Bock’s head with the water, muttered a few words, and nodded. Michel placed the muzzle of his rifle against Bock’s chest and pulled the trigger. Bock gave out a hoarse cry and slumped still.

“Take him into the lane while I set the other on the path.”

The priest bent over Rudi.

“Du musst mir dein Geständnis geben.” You must confess your sins now.

“Forgive me, Father,” Rudi replied automatically. “I have killed many of the enemy soldiers today. I left my post of duty as a soldier. I attacked my superior officer. I held impure thoughts. I spoke improper words.”

“Killing is a mortal sin, and we must address that. The others are venial, and you must commit to do them no more. I think you may be safe in that resolve, so fix it in your mind. But first…”

The priest handed the penitent a bucket.

“Clean yourself up. You should not face the Father covered in excrement.”

Or me, for that matter, Olivier thought. Rudi dipped the bucket in the water trough and began to sluice the dried cowshit out of his hair.

He beckoned to Arthéme. “Come, my child, tell me what happened here.”

Before she could answer, the two Frenchmen burst excitedly back through the gate. “Père Olivier, les Américains!”

And so it was. Two American soldiers in green looked into the farmyard, spotted Rudi and raised their weapons. He turned from the trough, dropped the bucket and raised his hands over his head.

More Americans came after, led by a sergeant who pointed two of them to guard the gate.

“Bonjour?” he asked. He gestured to Rudi, who was not moving a muscle as the cold water dripped down his neck with six rifles and a captured machinegun aimed at his heart. “Are there more Germans, um, autres Allemands?”

“Non, il est notre prisonnier,” Olivier said. The Americans stared blankly back. “Arthéme, tu as appris l’anglais à l’école, oui?” You learnt English at school?

“Oui, Père,” she replied, and addressed herself to the sergeant. “There are no Allemands here. This one is our prisonnier.”

“My prisoner,” the sergeant replied. “Ask him if he knows how to work this thing.” He pointed to the German machine-gun. “We need it, but it jams.”

“It jams??” Arthéme looked puzzled. “Rudi, sie wollen dieses mitrailleuse benutzen. Kannst du ihnen zeigen wie?” They want to use the gun. Can you show them?

Olivier frowned at Arthéme. This was not the time to get friendly with the enemy. She scowled back.

“Tu allais le tuer!” You were going to kill him.

Olivier shrugged. “Les Américains peuvent le tuer à la place.” They can do that.

Rudi nodded that yes, he could help.

“Good. OK, Corporal, you and your squad watch this Kraut. And if he gets an itchy trigger finger, shoot the shit out of him.” He turned to Rudi. “You got that soldier? Show us how this loads up, and you live.”

Arthéme’s mother, who had vanished into the house, returned with three bottles of wine and a home-made British flag. She seized the nearest American soldier, gave him a hearty kiss, and handed him a corkscrew.

“Aw, crap.” The sergeant raised his voice. “Guys! One drink and that’s it. We got work to do.”

It may have been more than one drink and a chorus or two of La Marseillaise sung by the French before the soldiers moved out. The sergeant produced a camera from his pack, and photographs were taken.

Olivier found that he had offered the use of his church. The crypt would serve as a secure place to hold the prisoner and any more to come, and the tower would be an excellent observation post. His men would show the Americans the best places to guard the roads.

Rudi, who had somehow managed to be included in the drinks, gave Olivier a grin. “Wir sind heute alle Amerikaner, oder?”

We are all Americans today. Olivier pointed at the British flag. “Oder Englisch, ja?”

I puzzled over this chapter. Here were Arthéme, Rudi, and Roland together. Who would tell the story?

And how would all these people understand each other? Obviously on the day the French had no difficulty expressing their feelings about the situation, but I had to tell the story, and I can’t smile and point to things.

Somewhere Arthéme has become tri-lingual (or try-lingual, given that she is pretty rocky in her German and English) but during the years of occupation it is reasonable to expect that some French picked up some German, especially if they had a Feldwebel billeted in their house who refused to speak French.

Would a rural school in Normandy teach English? Maybe. Normandy was a popular tourist destination with the British before the war, and the seaside villages catered to summer populations from across the Channel.

Anyway, I’m telling the story, and if it’s remotely plausible, it is in.

Bringing in the village priest to observe the three young people as they meet was a neat solution, I thought. And it gives me a chance to examine the spiritual atmosphere. Rudi is obviously troubled by his sins, and if he has to die, he is glad of the chance to go with a clean conscience. And a clean face.

There are videos showing how to use the German machineguns MG34 and MG42. Both, it seems, were excellent infantry weapons, though prodigious in the way they blew through ammunition, which was generally fed through belts. It seems there was a trick to loading them which would not have been obvious to Americans trained on their older and more straightforward designs.

Rudi could have sorted them out, and they can go on to liberate the village and defend it against a possible German counterattack, which Roland can narrate, skipping over any points I find difficult.

“There we were, knee-deep in grenade pins, ten against a thousand, fighting for our lives. Time and again we fought off their furious assaults, reduced to hand to hand struggles as each human wave threatened to overwhelm our position. Finally, the smoke cleared, the guns were silent, we looked at each other, relieved to have seen them off. A tough crew, those ten…”

Britni

The full story: