Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #19. Arthur Conan Doyle
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one of the guards at our end sees something in the river and calls his companion over. Soon they are both leaning over the rail, completely distracted. I know there will never be a more opportune moment, but Marcel and the others are nowhere to be seen.
I don’t know what comes over me, Padrig. I never before had the urge to be a hero. But before I know it I am creeping down the knoll to the back of the truck. I pull out a rifle. So far, so good, but from there I can no longer see the guards. I glance back at the knoll and see Marcel and Joseph peering down and motioning to me to stay still.
Suddenly Marcel jumps out and shouts: “Go, go!” And my four companions start running down from the knoll screaming their heads off. I spin out from behind the truck, drop to one knee and lift the rifle to my shoulder. I shoot one guard in the chest as he turns toward me, but the other one runs across the road and puts the truck between us.
I jump to my feet as I feed another shell into the chamber. I run around the truck and suddenly we’re face to face. We both have our rifles at the ready. It’s now or never! I fire at him, point-blank. I feel a sledgehammer blow to my leg, and I buckle and pitch forward onto the road.
I don’t know how long I am lying there, but I hear shouts and gunfire from the other end of the bridge, and the sound of a motor turning over. Then I hear Marcel’s voice and I feel myself being lifted into the truck. Then we are racing over the bridge with Joseph and Marcel blazing away like a couple of gangsters. We make it across, I remember, but after that things get hazy. Marcel tells me later I pass out from the pain.
I know I spend a lot of time lying in the back of that truck, and I vaguely remember being told we’re in the Loire Valley. Then I am moved to a French truck and the following day to a car. The next thing I know we’re riding through the streets of Nantes. Joseph and Marcel are still with me; they tell me the rest:
“When we get down to the truck,” says Marcel, “we grab the two remaining rifles from the back and run to back you up. But we arrive just in time to watch you shoot it out with the German guards. You killed them both—great job. Meanwhile one of the other men cranks up the truck, and we put you in the back and head over the bridge as fast as we can go.”
Joseph picks up the story: “Then we hook up with a French convoy that is heading for the Loire Valley to make a stand. The other two men are placed in infantry units, but they send us back with you to seek medical aid. Eventually we meet up with Doctor Bertrand who brings us back to his surgery in Nantes.”
“We hear on the radio that Pétain has sued for an armistice, and Marcel decides to head home before the Germans move in. They promise to find my father when they get back. I guess you know the rest.”
When Young Yann finished his narrative, he searched his father’s eyes for the slightest sign of encouragement or perhaps even sympathy, but if he expected any, he was surely disappointed. Old Yann grunted, got to his feet and began adjusting the sail.
But then he turned to me, and I was looking into the eyes of a young man who had seen so much in so short a time. He had been a player on the world’s stage for just a millisecond and had paid dearly for that privilege. What could I say to him? What words were there to comfort him? For the rest of his life he would struggle just to move around. Perhaps he could still fish for a living, but it wouldn’t be easy.
Young Yann had been born into a world of poverty where his only asset was his healthy body and youthful vigor. And now that had been taken from him. I reached over and put an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. But even I, Padrig the storyteller, had no words of comfort for my friend. There was nothing I could think of to say that would have even an ounce of truth. So I sat there in the stern of our tiny boat, forlornly clutching his shoulders as the huge swells rolled in off the ocean systematically picking us up and letting us gently back down.
The following afternoon, we dropped anchor in Kérity harbor.
d
Peter James Quirk is an author, freelance writer and outdoorsman who spends his winters skiing and snowboarding and his summers hiking, biking and playing tennis. His novel Trail of Vengeance has a strong ski theme; indeed, the villain of the story is a disgraced ski instructor. Many of his stories, however, cover World War II and its aftermath. It is a fascinating if tragic period to explore, and the villains and heroes are so easy to find.
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