D-Day Anniversary. Part 1
(A/N): If you find any mistakes in the French, Russian, or Polish bits I do apologize and please don't hesitate to correct me!
Title: “Europe in the Morning”
Characters: America/Alfred, England/Arthur, Russia/Ivan, France/Francis, Poland/Feliks, Lithuania/Toris, Germany (if you squint), Japan/Kiku.
Pairings: America/England, implied America/England/France, friendship!Poland/Lithuania.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of "Axis Powers Hetalia". Himaruya does.
Rating: R
Warnings: Human names (this was supposed to be a speech for school), mingling with historical figures and events, disturbing imagery, sensitive topics. War.
Timeline: 1944-1945
Summary: Overview of the USA’s role during the Second World War. From D-Day to Hiroshima through the eyes of Alfred.
-
"Europe in the Morning"
June 8, 1944. 5:15 P.M.
Omaha Beach. Temporary First Aid centre of the American Forces.
His name was Alfred F. Jones. At least that’s what his dog-tag said, anyway.
He was bleeding but he couldn’t remember when he was taken off the hands of the medical team. Then again, he didn’t remember much about anything that came after a frag grenade went off and two of his men exploded right behind him; privates Omaha and Utah, or something. Everything around him was blurred and seemed to have the volume turned down. He saw uniformed men bursting into flames, like scarecrows threatened by a field fire. Riffles cracked soundless fireworks, white and glorious like the ones during the 4th of July.
He couldn’t hear, but he could smell the blood, taste the sour tang of steel on his dry lips. Gunpowder turned into the very sand he stood on and red water engulfed the fallen soldiers.
They looked like dead fish.
If Alfred coughed, his body burned. That ache reminded him of the taste of his own vomit coming up while he was in an assault boat a few hours earlier, overlooking the beach stripped of colour that soon would be stained with the rich vermillion of the long range brush of a sniper.
He was in the midst of contemplating the event backwards, then he fast-forwarded it. While he did this, all words were blurred and voices turned heavy. Like German. And then he pressed pause, play, and it was English.
“Jones?”
“Replay”, Alfred thought and he found himself in the present, sprawled over a bunk bed with his wounds dressed and with an English official talking to him. Dazed, Alfred managed a curt nod and the man seemed pleased.
“H-how did it go?” He asked groggily. His mind was no more than a grainy reel of film, burnt in the turning points until it reached the climax, marked with the sound of his own screams and the silver glint of a surgeon’s pliers cutting through flesh. He had blacked out and for an instant there had been no Bradley, no Roosevelt, no damned Jerry nor the cacophony of lost bullets piercing helmets. Eisenhower was only a tiny speck of sand in an untameable desert.
There was only silence. And then, waves.
“You were successful,” replied the Englishman with that funny accent those limeys have.
Sighing with relief, the American captain flashed the thumbs up sign at the other man. “At least the French whores did their part with the Calais rumours.” Alfred chuckled.
“Hm, indeed.” They shook hands. “The name’s Arthur Kirkland. I’m supposed to accompany you and your men to Paris so I can reunite with my own division. Thought you could use an extra sniper.”
June 8, 1944. 7:20 P.M.
They were giving out ice cream. Crates full of it. Possibly to boost the general morale of the troops.
He’d heard some idiots had broken their bones over the excitement of getting some.
Alfred licked the ice cream languidly, devoid of interest in the present while his eyes only saw the lapping waves over black sand, during the amphibian landings. “Right now”, he decided chucking the ice cream away, “I’m not very hungry.”
August 24, 1944.
Road to Paris. 170 miles from Saint-Lô.
The roads were in poor shape so they kept walking in the wrong direction, seemingly as chess pieces carelessly moved during an endless match. Alfred mentally noted that he owed the Englishman a round of chess (you see, he constantly bragged about his skill at it).
“I’ll first be fucked by a pansy such as you before I’m beaten by a limey at anything.”
“There’s no need to be so rude yet, Jones.” Kirkland replied with a snarky grin. “You can loosen your belt freely for the Krauts after I win this war and the match.”
He liked this guy.
Alfred shook his head, chuckling and sat on the remains of where a house had stood before German tanks had made their grand entrance. Beside them, three soldiers had found a relatively unharmed gramophone and were listening to some French chick singing “La Vie En Rose”.
Luckily, today had been free of encounters with German shooters, never-the-less, Alfred eyed the long grass and debris carefully, his hands always with a steady grip on his trusty M1 Garand.
Sometimes when there was nothing else to do, he listened to the men talk. They always had something to say.
Today was the story of an officer something Goldberg who had been blown to pieces in Sicily. He was sent home in a box. Alfred could imagine Mrs Goldberg in the kitchen, wearing a yellow apron speckled with pink flowers that probably her mother had given to her in Christmas. It was smeared with a brown stain from earlier dish washing. She heard the doorbell and rushed to the door with smothering anticipation.
Goldberg’s finger came back with the engagement ring still intact and a letter with the government’s condolences.
She moved to Canada after the war.
Alfred shook the scene from his mind for it would often start wandering until he’d see himself standing before his own doorway with the clear summer sky of Arkansas overhead, and a cool beer instead of a gun in his left hand to fend off against the heat.
In this state, he vaguely heard when another private excitedly told the others what commander general Bradley had said only minutes ago:
“OK Leclerc, run into Paris.”
August 29, 1944.
Paris. Avenue des Champs Elysées.
There was a parade in front of the Arc de Triomphe. The jubilant Parisians cheered as American troops marched in a grand display of power over the defeated Germans. Before them were the proud bearers of the tricolour flag: the Armée de la Libération, the same rebels who had sneaked into Nazi-infested bars and cried “Vive la France!” before shooting the enemies down with Tommy guns.
“Liberators”; that’s what the people called them. Alfred thought the title was fitting, and as he looked up from his tank at the Eiffel Tower -the magnificent lady of iron- as he drove through Av. De Suffren, he decided he preferred it without Hitler obscuring the view.
August 29, 1944. 10:30 P.M.
Along with the Allies’ retrieval of France there came a lighter air that breathed life into the weary men once more. The Parisians were also overjoyed and thankful and they made sure to show it. Alfred once saw a pair of little girls wearing star-spangled dresses and lifting their chubby arms to the sky, brandishing a colourful sign that said: “Thanks you, American.” Several soldiers would kneel and chat with them in slurred French and offer them a chocolate bar.
Boys were thrilled when a soldier addressed them, asking if they had been brave and after uncertain or energetic nods, they would let them wear their helmets for a while or touch their guns with unsteady fingers. With a smile, Alfred noticed how Kirkland was busy naming the parts of his rifle to a curious crowd of youngsters.
The streets were quickly filled with music and flashes of blue, white, and red. There even was a plump woman who, in her glee and gratitude, offered fine wine to anybody who passed by her. Alfred happily accepted the drink and smiled back before he took a sip and then walked away.
Everybody welcomed the sweet pleasures that the residents of the City of Lights -what was left of it, anyway- had to offer. Soldiers walked down the cobblestoned streets, whistling or singing. They also participated in the simple hedonistic joys that came with free food, drink, and in some cases, carnal contact with their newly found sweethearts.
It was hard to escape the racket of the ongoing celebrations. Alfred walked away. He walked and walked until his feet ached and the speckled light of the lampposts were his only guides in the chilly night. In a lonely street he finally stopped, taking in the magnificent sight of the Louvre shielded with barricades, quietly facing him in the dark. Suddenly aware of his surroundings once more, he heard water. To his right, the gentle haze of the Seine hummed in a wooing, female voice. He walked down some steps, leaving his spot on the Pont Royal. He shuddered as the cool river’s surface weaved welcoming swirls with a crouching willow tree's leaves, as if it was waving at him.
Before him, following the river’s course, a new trail unfolded, blending in perfect geometry with other bridges and lights, until it reached Île de la Cité. There was nothing more fetching than the quiet lull of the Seine, beckoning him to explore, to follow her dancing body, to let her reveal the beauty of her city for him to appreciate. Paris’ waters carefully lifted him from the violent currents he dreamed of constantly, washing his darkened body with blue and yellow hues. Overhead, Van Gogh’s Starry Night glimmered.
The bridges sighed as he walked bellow them, running his palm absently over their surface. The Seine hummed beside him until he stood shaded under the arc of the Petit Pont. Before him, the bow unfurled like a curtain and Alfred found himself staring at Notre-Dame. His surroundings, the elements, everything was silent in reverence. The bells tolling made the earth shake.
The Seine prayed as she lovingly embraced the land with her long arms. The cathedral stood proudly, adorned with stone angels looking skywards, ignoring the earthly events happening below their bare feet, no matter how terrible they were. It seemed as if Heaven had lost interest in humankind. In all honesty, Alfred couldn’t blame them for it.
“Belle, n’est-ce pas?” [“Beautiful, isn’t it?”]
Alfred reeled; surprised he hadn’t noticed the man leaning against the base of the bridge. A bottle of wine was tucked under his arm and his blue eyes were fixed on the cathedral as if under a spell. After a long silence Alfred agreed in sloppy French and the man nodded as a lop-sided grin etched over his handsome features. Placing the bottle beside his feet, the man produced a cigarette and lit it. He took a long drag before breathing out a hazy cloud of smoke. Then he offered the package to Alfred.
“S’il vous plait, acceptez un. Rien n’est plus triste que fumer seul que, peut-être, boire tout seul.” [“Please accept one. There’s nothing sadder than smoking alone except, perhaps, drinking by yourself.”]
With a low “Merci”, Alfred tentatively took the cigar and after lighting it both men fell silent once more. The smoke of their cigars entwined like snakes, slithering toward the night sky.
“Ne devriez vous être content?” [“Shouldn’t you be enjoying yourself?”] The Frenchman said, signalling upwards with his head.
“Nah. I just want to lay back a bit. I’m exhausted, you know? Kicking so many German butts is pretty tiring.”
The man looked back at the cathedral, his index and middle fingers held the dying cigar.
“I love this city.” He confessed, smiling and gesturing to the view. “I sort of wanted to enjoy it for a while, seeing as we’ll leave pretty soon and well, who knows if I’ll ever get to see all of this again.”
To Alfred’s surprise, the Frenchman replied in perfect English this time.
“Politics, world leaders… they all become meaningless once they start handing out guns to men like candy. In the blur, one thing is only certain: you want to live. Live and return home. I for once, would gladly die defending this city. It is my treasure, one I love to show off. One I know -be it either Germans or Italians, it makes no difference- no one will dare burn it to the ground. If they did, I would burn with it. I would throw myself to the enemy and let them pierce me with their bullets.”
Alfred studied the man’s face. How his jaw clenched and his eyes dulled with passion and how his voice grew thicker. He was a soldier. “You were in the Resistance.”
The Frenchman took one last drag on the cigarette before he let it fall and then stepped on it. The thing died in silent agony.
“I suppose you’re expecting my gratitude.”
Alfred frowned. “Do you really think I need it?”
The Frenchman chuckled and rested his head against the stone.
“Well, if you put it that way… But yes, I was part of a team of thirty. After the Germans took over we were only five left so we had to be careful of what we did and when we acted.”
Alfred nodded in understanding and dropped the cigarette to the cold ground.
“You know, Germans soldiers are given permission to rest once a week, of course they can’t take their uniforms off. Nothing else matters. They were walking targets, all of them. Especially when they raided bars and forgot how handy it is to always keep your gun close. Every weekend we found them and sprayed their brains against the walls, just as they’ve done with our brothers, the women and children. To be honest, it didn’t make me feel better."
He looked distant, "God, grant me strength to accept those things I cannot change.”
“The prayer of St. Francis, isn’t it?”
The Frenchman chuckled, grabbed the bottle of wine, and stretched his hand toward Alfred, “And that happens to be my name. Enchanté de faire vôtre connaissance. Je m’appelle François Bonnefoy.” [“Pleased to meet you. My name is François Bonnefoy.”]
“Alfred F. Jones.” They shook hands.
“Come, it is a feisty night and our men expect us in the revelry!” His manner suddenly changed to that of a most welcoming host. “I know of places where you can further enjoy my beautiful city! Do indulge me, friend. As I said earlier: there’s nothing sadder than smoking alone except, perhaps, drinking by yourself.”
He shook the green bottle which glinted with the peeking rays of dim moonlight, its content sloshing lazily inside in an inviting manner. Laughing both men walked away after casting a final look at the cathedral.
Notre-Dame saluted them with bells.
August 30, 1944. 1:00 A.M.
Her shoulders glistened with the light of the bedside lamp. With each movement, the glass of bourbon danced close to the edge of the table. Her small breasts bounced up and down as she rode him. She pressed herself closer to the Frenchman, wrapping her legs, sleek with sweat and semen, around his waist. Meanwhile, his hand caressed the nude back of a woman sleeping beside him, her body moving rhythmically as she breathed.
There was an overturned chess board, with its pieces strewn messily, on the floor.
It was when officer Kirkland moaned under him that Alfred realized he hadn’t been sleeping with the woman he had paid for. In the confusion and stupor that his own set of drinks had supplied, Alfred missed when he was done with her or when she had left (if she had even left). He shrugged this off.
They were in France, anyway.
--
Footnotes:
-This story spans several key events during the final years of WWII, including the War in Europe and the Pacific War. Of course, in all these events and battles there were a lot of divisions involved. I only took the liberty to modify this a little so Alfred’s division could have a look at most of these important moments such as D-Day on June 6,1944. I used the 8th to show that Alfred was only looking back at the actual battle and that now he was resting. So technically this starts after D-Day.
-In August 19, 1944, French Resistance begins uprising in Paris, partly inspired by the Allied approach to the Seine River. France is liberated on the 25th of August and the actual parade on the 29th did happen.
-The massacre of women and children France mentions is the one that took place in Oradour-sur-Glane in June 10, 1944 where 642 men, women, and children were shot by Germans because of recent Resistance uprisings.
-The story of members of the Resistance entering bars with Tommy guns, shouting “Vive la France!” before shooting down drunken German soldiers off-duty and who could not take off their uniforms or they were shot is actually a real anecdote of the son of a friend of my grandfather’s. While his father and family fled France, the lad refused to leave and said that “if he died, he died in France as a Frenchman.” Also, he was part of a group that belonged to the Resistance. 30 men, all friends and very close. After France was invaded only 5 were left, among them the young man I mentioned above. He survived the war, thank heavens.
-Used the Petit Pont with the view of Notre Dame just because I love that view, haha!
Title: “Europe in the Morning”
Characters: America/Alfred, England/Arthur, Russia/Ivan, France/Francis, Poland/Feliks, Lithuania/Toris, Germany (if you squint), Japan/Kiku.
Pairings: America/England, implied America/England/France, friendship!Poland/Lithuania.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of "Axis Powers Hetalia". Himaruya does.
Rating: R
Warnings: Human names (this was supposed to be a speech for school), mingling with historical figures and events, disturbing imagery, sensitive topics. War.
Timeline: 1944-1945
Summary: Overview of the USA’s role during the Second World War. From D-Day to Hiroshima through the eyes of Alfred.
-
"Europe in the Morning"
June 8, 1944. 5:15 P.M.
Omaha Beach. Temporary First Aid centre of the American Forces.
His name was Alfred F. Jones. At least that’s what his dog-tag said, anyway.
He was bleeding but he couldn’t remember when he was taken off the hands of the medical team. Then again, he didn’t remember much about anything that came after a frag grenade went off and two of his men exploded right behind him; privates Omaha and Utah, or something. Everything around him was blurred and seemed to have the volume turned down. He saw uniformed men bursting into flames, like scarecrows threatened by a field fire. Riffles cracked soundless fireworks, white and glorious like the ones during the 4th of July.
He couldn’t hear, but he could smell the blood, taste the sour tang of steel on his dry lips. Gunpowder turned into the very sand he stood on and red water engulfed the fallen soldiers.
They looked like dead fish.
If Alfred coughed, his body burned. That ache reminded him of the taste of his own vomit coming up while he was in an assault boat a few hours earlier, overlooking the beach stripped of colour that soon would be stained with the rich vermillion of the long range brush of a sniper.
He was in the midst of contemplating the event backwards, then he fast-forwarded it. While he did this, all words were blurred and voices turned heavy. Like German. And then he pressed pause, play, and it was English.
“Jones?”
“Replay”, Alfred thought and he found himself in the present, sprawled over a bunk bed with his wounds dressed and with an English official talking to him. Dazed, Alfred managed a curt nod and the man seemed pleased.
“H-how did it go?” He asked groggily. His mind was no more than a grainy reel of film, burnt in the turning points until it reached the climax, marked with the sound of his own screams and the silver glint of a surgeon’s pliers cutting through flesh. He had blacked out and for an instant there had been no Bradley, no Roosevelt, no damned Jerry nor the cacophony of lost bullets piercing helmets. Eisenhower was only a tiny speck of sand in an untameable desert.
There was only silence. And then, waves.
“You were successful,” replied the Englishman with that funny accent those limeys have.
Sighing with relief, the American captain flashed the thumbs up sign at the other man. “At least the French whores did their part with the Calais rumours.” Alfred chuckled.
“Hm, indeed.” They shook hands. “The name’s Arthur Kirkland. I’m supposed to accompany you and your men to Paris so I can reunite with my own division. Thought you could use an extra sniper.”
June 8, 1944. 7:20 P.M.
They were giving out ice cream. Crates full of it. Possibly to boost the general morale of the troops.
He’d heard some idiots had broken their bones over the excitement of getting some.
Alfred licked the ice cream languidly, devoid of interest in the present while his eyes only saw the lapping waves over black sand, during the amphibian landings. “Right now”, he decided chucking the ice cream away, “I’m not very hungry.”
August 24, 1944.
Road to Paris. 170 miles from Saint-Lô.
The roads were in poor shape so they kept walking in the wrong direction, seemingly as chess pieces carelessly moved during an endless match. Alfred mentally noted that he owed the Englishman a round of chess (you see, he constantly bragged about his skill at it).
“I’ll first be fucked by a pansy such as you before I’m beaten by a limey at anything.”
“There’s no need to be so rude yet, Jones.” Kirkland replied with a snarky grin. “You can loosen your belt freely for the Krauts after I win this war and the match.”
He liked this guy.
Alfred shook his head, chuckling and sat on the remains of where a house had stood before German tanks had made their grand entrance. Beside them, three soldiers had found a relatively unharmed gramophone and were listening to some French chick singing “La Vie En Rose”.
Luckily, today had been free of encounters with German shooters, never-the-less, Alfred eyed the long grass and debris carefully, his hands always with a steady grip on his trusty M1 Garand.
Sometimes when there was nothing else to do, he listened to the men talk. They always had something to say.
Today was the story of an officer something Goldberg who had been blown to pieces in Sicily. He was sent home in a box. Alfred could imagine Mrs Goldberg in the kitchen, wearing a yellow apron speckled with pink flowers that probably her mother had given to her in Christmas. It was smeared with a brown stain from earlier dish washing. She heard the doorbell and rushed to the door with smothering anticipation.
Goldberg’s finger came back with the engagement ring still intact and a letter with the government’s condolences.
She moved to Canada after the war.
Alfred shook the scene from his mind for it would often start wandering until he’d see himself standing before his own doorway with the clear summer sky of Arkansas overhead, and a cool beer instead of a gun in his left hand to fend off against the heat.
In this state, he vaguely heard when another private excitedly told the others what commander general Bradley had said only minutes ago:
“OK Leclerc, run into Paris.”
August 29, 1944.
Paris. Avenue des Champs Elysées.
There was a parade in front of the Arc de Triomphe. The jubilant Parisians cheered as American troops marched in a grand display of power over the defeated Germans. Before them were the proud bearers of the tricolour flag: the Armée de la Libération, the same rebels who had sneaked into Nazi-infested bars and cried “Vive la France!” before shooting the enemies down with Tommy guns.
“Liberators”; that’s what the people called them. Alfred thought the title was fitting, and as he looked up from his tank at the Eiffel Tower -the magnificent lady of iron- as he drove through Av. De Suffren, he decided he preferred it without Hitler obscuring the view.
August 29, 1944. 10:30 P.M.
Along with the Allies’ retrieval of France there came a lighter air that breathed life into the weary men once more. The Parisians were also overjoyed and thankful and they made sure to show it. Alfred once saw a pair of little girls wearing star-spangled dresses and lifting their chubby arms to the sky, brandishing a colourful sign that said: “Thanks you, American.” Several soldiers would kneel and chat with them in slurred French and offer them a chocolate bar.
Boys were thrilled when a soldier addressed them, asking if they had been brave and after uncertain or energetic nods, they would let them wear their helmets for a while or touch their guns with unsteady fingers. With a smile, Alfred noticed how Kirkland was busy naming the parts of his rifle to a curious crowd of youngsters.
The streets were quickly filled with music and flashes of blue, white, and red. There even was a plump woman who, in her glee and gratitude, offered fine wine to anybody who passed by her. Alfred happily accepted the drink and smiled back before he took a sip and then walked away.
Everybody welcomed the sweet pleasures that the residents of the City of Lights -what was left of it, anyway- had to offer. Soldiers walked down the cobblestoned streets, whistling or singing. They also participated in the simple hedonistic joys that came with free food, drink, and in some cases, carnal contact with their newly found sweethearts.
It was hard to escape the racket of the ongoing celebrations. Alfred walked away. He walked and walked until his feet ached and the speckled light of the lampposts were his only guides in the chilly night. In a lonely street he finally stopped, taking in the magnificent sight of the Louvre shielded with barricades, quietly facing him in the dark. Suddenly aware of his surroundings once more, he heard water. To his right, the gentle haze of the Seine hummed in a wooing, female voice. He walked down some steps, leaving his spot on the Pont Royal. He shuddered as the cool river’s surface weaved welcoming swirls with a crouching willow tree's leaves, as if it was waving at him.
Before him, following the river’s course, a new trail unfolded, blending in perfect geometry with other bridges and lights, until it reached Île de la Cité. There was nothing more fetching than the quiet lull of the Seine, beckoning him to explore, to follow her dancing body, to let her reveal the beauty of her city for him to appreciate. Paris’ waters carefully lifted him from the violent currents he dreamed of constantly, washing his darkened body with blue and yellow hues. Overhead, Van Gogh’s Starry Night glimmered.
The bridges sighed as he walked bellow them, running his palm absently over their surface. The Seine hummed beside him until he stood shaded under the arc of the Petit Pont. Before him, the bow unfurled like a curtain and Alfred found himself staring at Notre-Dame. His surroundings, the elements, everything was silent in reverence. The bells tolling made the earth shake.
The Seine prayed as she lovingly embraced the land with her long arms. The cathedral stood proudly, adorned with stone angels looking skywards, ignoring the earthly events happening below their bare feet, no matter how terrible they were. It seemed as if Heaven had lost interest in humankind. In all honesty, Alfred couldn’t blame them for it.
“Belle, n’est-ce pas?” [“Beautiful, isn’t it?”]
Alfred reeled; surprised he hadn’t noticed the man leaning against the base of the bridge. A bottle of wine was tucked under his arm and his blue eyes were fixed on the cathedral as if under a spell. After a long silence Alfred agreed in sloppy French and the man nodded as a lop-sided grin etched over his handsome features. Placing the bottle beside his feet, the man produced a cigarette and lit it. He took a long drag before breathing out a hazy cloud of smoke. Then he offered the package to Alfred.
“S’il vous plait, acceptez un. Rien n’est plus triste que fumer seul que, peut-être, boire tout seul.” [“Please accept one. There’s nothing sadder than smoking alone except, perhaps, drinking by yourself.”]
With a low “Merci”, Alfred tentatively took the cigar and after lighting it both men fell silent once more. The smoke of their cigars entwined like snakes, slithering toward the night sky.
“Ne devriez vous être content?” [“Shouldn’t you be enjoying yourself?”] The Frenchman said, signalling upwards with his head.
“Nah. I just want to lay back a bit. I’m exhausted, you know? Kicking so many German butts is pretty tiring.”
The man looked back at the cathedral, his index and middle fingers held the dying cigar.
“I love this city.” He confessed, smiling and gesturing to the view. “I sort of wanted to enjoy it for a while, seeing as we’ll leave pretty soon and well, who knows if I’ll ever get to see all of this again.”
To Alfred’s surprise, the Frenchman replied in perfect English this time.
“Politics, world leaders… they all become meaningless once they start handing out guns to men like candy. In the blur, one thing is only certain: you want to live. Live and return home. I for once, would gladly die defending this city. It is my treasure, one I love to show off. One I know -be it either Germans or Italians, it makes no difference- no one will dare burn it to the ground. If they did, I would burn with it. I would throw myself to the enemy and let them pierce me with their bullets.”
Alfred studied the man’s face. How his jaw clenched and his eyes dulled with passion and how his voice grew thicker. He was a soldier. “You were in the Resistance.”
The Frenchman took one last drag on the cigarette before he let it fall and then stepped on it. The thing died in silent agony.
“I suppose you’re expecting my gratitude.”
Alfred frowned. “Do you really think I need it?”
The Frenchman chuckled and rested his head against the stone.
“Well, if you put it that way… But yes, I was part of a team of thirty. After the Germans took over we were only five left so we had to be careful of what we did and when we acted.”
Alfred nodded in understanding and dropped the cigarette to the cold ground.
“You know, Germans soldiers are given permission to rest once a week, of course they can’t take their uniforms off. Nothing else matters. They were walking targets, all of them. Especially when they raided bars and forgot how handy it is to always keep your gun close. Every weekend we found them and sprayed their brains against the walls, just as they’ve done with our brothers, the women and children. To be honest, it didn’t make me feel better."
He looked distant, "God, grant me strength to accept those things I cannot change.”
“The prayer of St. Francis, isn’t it?”
The Frenchman chuckled, grabbed the bottle of wine, and stretched his hand toward Alfred, “And that happens to be my name. Enchanté de faire vôtre connaissance. Je m’appelle François Bonnefoy.” [“Pleased to meet you. My name is François Bonnefoy.”]
“Alfred F. Jones.” They shook hands.
“Come, it is a feisty night and our men expect us in the revelry!” His manner suddenly changed to that of a most welcoming host. “I know of places where you can further enjoy my beautiful city! Do indulge me, friend. As I said earlier: there’s nothing sadder than smoking alone except, perhaps, drinking by yourself.”
He shook the green bottle which glinted with the peeking rays of dim moonlight, its content sloshing lazily inside in an inviting manner. Laughing both men walked away after casting a final look at the cathedral.
Notre-Dame saluted them with bells.
August 30, 1944. 1:00 A.M.
Her shoulders glistened with the light of the bedside lamp. With each movement, the glass of bourbon danced close to the edge of the table. Her small breasts bounced up and down as she rode him. She pressed herself closer to the Frenchman, wrapping her legs, sleek with sweat and semen, around his waist. Meanwhile, his hand caressed the nude back of a woman sleeping beside him, her body moving rhythmically as she breathed.
There was an overturned chess board, with its pieces strewn messily, on the floor.
It was when officer Kirkland moaned under him that Alfred realized he hadn’t been sleeping with the woman he had paid for. In the confusion and stupor that his own set of drinks had supplied, Alfred missed when he was done with her or when she had left (if she had even left). He shrugged this off.
They were in France, anyway.
--
Footnotes:
-This story spans several key events during the final years of WWII, including the War in Europe and the Pacific War. Of course, in all these events and battles there were a lot of divisions involved. I only took the liberty to modify this a little so Alfred’s division could have a look at most of these important moments such as D-Day on June 6,1944. I used the 8th to show that Alfred was only looking back at the actual battle and that now he was resting. So technically this starts after D-Day.
-In August 19, 1944, French Resistance begins uprising in Paris, partly inspired by the Allied approach to the Seine River. France is liberated on the 25th of August and the actual parade on the 29th did happen.
-The massacre of women and children France mentions is the one that took place in Oradour-sur-Glane in June 10, 1944 where 642 men, women, and children were shot by Germans because of recent Resistance uprisings.
-The story of members of the Resistance entering bars with Tommy guns, shouting “Vive la France!” before shooting down drunken German soldiers off-duty and who could not take off their uniforms or they were shot is actually a real anecdote of the son of a friend of my grandfather’s. While his father and family fled France, the lad refused to leave and said that “if he died, he died in France as a Frenchman.” Also, he was part of a group that belonged to the Resistance. 30 men, all friends and very close. After France was invaded only 5 were left, among them the young man I mentioned above. He survived the war, thank heavens.
-Used the Petit Pont with the view of Notre Dame just because I love that view, haha!