May MGWAT

[Ozzie]

Bruce, who delivered a wonderful first time entry has suggested this topic.

C'mon, let's see what you make of it.

Cheers

Kim

[jdajd]

This is part of a longer story where Sgt. David “Yank” Brighton and Sergeant Jeffrey “Steb” Stebbins are two "established" characters. Sorry its a little bit longish.

Yank and Steb entered Marie’s and scanned the room for a place to sit. They spotted a group of Tommies collecting their stuff and bolted for the table. Yank and Steb were across the room in a shot beating out another couple of Tommies who had been waiting. Shrugging to the slower soldiers Yank and Steb took their seats and got comfortable.

The smoke was thick enough to choke a coal miner. The sounds of laughter singing and talking drowned out the feeble tinkling of the dilapidated piano in the corner. The beer was weak at best, the wine tasted like it had been wrung from a bar rag and the food was over priced and terrible. Despite all this Marie’s was home. Marie’s was an estaminet frequented by the ranks that provided a little piece of sanity and escape for the thousands of rankers who passed through its door.

Marie’s was named for the matron, a French woman in her late thirties or early forties. Marie was large, but carried herself with the grace and poise of a woman half her size. Her husband was killed at Verdun and it had been some time since she heard from her only son who was somewhere in the line. She had enough worries to weigh any person down, but she had an easy laugh and always had a smile for her ‘Toomees’. She served them happily and put up with their awkward advances with a smile and a gentle slap.

Marie was helped by her 17 year old daughter, Susette. The men loved Susette and there was definitely a part of Susette that loved the attention she received from the men. She would giggle and bat her eyes and the men would act like absolute idiots to vie for her attention. Marie watched over Susette with an eagle eye and there was more than one Tommy nursing a bruise from her kitchen spoon for getting a little too fresh.

Night after night, Marie’s father Pierre, an ancient looking man sat at the piano and played sad romantic melodies. His glass of vin rouge perched on the piano was as familiar a sight as the cigarette that inevitably hung from his lips. Whenever the music would stop he would tell stories about fighting in the Franco-Prussian war, but it looked more like he may have served in Napoleon’s Grande army.

Tonight was a typical night at Marie’s. There were close to seventy men packed into a space that looked like it would struggle to hold half that. Most of the men were huddled around tables with their friends drinking and eating like it was their last day on Earth. Ten or fifteen of the men were gathered around a table gesticulating wildly. Through the din Yank could hear these men calling out their bets on the Crown and Anchor board that occupied the table. Beneath all of this Pierre’s mournful music could just be heard.

Rising slowly from his chair before the piano Pierre did a little bow, picked up his glass and shuffled towards the stairs. Almost as soon as he was up a drunk Tommy with some delusion he could play piano sat down and started to bang away at the keys. The men began to shout for him to quit, but he kept playing. Finally, four Tommys lifted him from the chair and removed him bodily from the establishment.

Roy O’Shea, an Irish boy from Yank’s regiment, sat down and took the drunk’s place at the keyboard. Yank knew Roy fairly well because Roy had lived for several years in Harlem before returning home for the war. They met on the boat to England and joined the same regiment. They had remained friends despite the fact that they were assigned to different companies. Yank never knew that Roy could play the piano, but was about to learn. Roy smiled at the crowd over his shoulder and started to blaze out a ragtime that would have made Joplin blush. The room erupted in applause as the first notes pierced the air. The music filled the room and the laughter and excitement seemed to double.

Leaning back in his chair Yank pushed his cap further back on his head and let the music wash over him. Closing his eyes he was able to imagine that he was not in a smokey hole in the wall somewhere in France. For a few moments Yank was seated with a girl on either arm sipping champagne at a nightclub in New York City. His dream was quickly disturbed when Steb pushed back from the table and stood up.

“I’ve got to piss. Watch me beer and order me another while I’m gone would ya.” With that Steb stumbled out into the night leaving Yank alone at their table.

Following Steb’s order he motioned for Marie who smiled and joked with another Tommy nearby as she crossed the room. He smiled back as she approached the table.

“Bonsoir, Mon Yanqui Toomee. What may I do for you?” Yank always loved the sing song lilt Marie had when she spoke English. Her eyes twinkled as she bent down and laid a hand on Yank’s shoulder. Sometimes Marie would sit down and make Yank tell about his life in America. She got especially excited when he talked about New York. He was never sure how much she actually understood, but she would say how she would like to visit and it seems like such an exciting place. Tonight though, Marie was too busy and even though he was only about a third of the way through his beer he ordered another for himself and Steb knowing how long it could take.

Roy finished playing ragtime and began taking requests. He was playing all the men’s favorites and the men, Yank among them, were lifting the rafters singing along. While Yank was singing Steb stumbled back in rubbing his head and dropped himself into the chair opposite Yank.

Taking a pause from the song Yank asked with a smirk “Where ya been? Ya almost missed the whole show! Ay, what’s amatta with your head?”

“Bloody Marie and her bloody spoon,” Steb spat. “I’s just talking to Susette is all wern’t doin nothin. All of sudden she sneaks up and raps me on the back of me head. I swear that spoon must weigh 2 stone. Look at me ‘ead and tell me if I’m bleedin?” Steb turned around so that Yank could look.

“You’re not bleeding you daft idiot. But, I told ya, ya gotta watch yourself with Susette. That Marie is a menace with that spoon. She’s a big woman, but I tell you, she won’t be heard unless she wants to be. We should get her out on patrol ya know?” Yank and Steb were still laughing when Marie brought them their beers. Steb stopped suddenly when he saw the spoon still clutched in her hand and Yank laughed even harder as Steb tried to make himself invisible.

Roy was playing Tipperary when Marie walked away. Yank and Steb stood up with their beers in their hands and their arms around each other’s shoulder and took up the familiar chorus with the rest of the men.

It’s a Long way to Tipperary

It’s a long way to go

It’s a long way to Tipperary to the sweetest gal I know

Goodbye to Picadilly

Farewell Leicester Square

It’s a long long way to Tipperary

But my heart lies there.

Yank heard more than one man intoning that it was the wrong way to tickle Mary, but he just laughed and raised his voice a little louder. Finally after the third reprise of Tipperary Roy was finished for the night and stood up from the keyboard. Everyone was on their feet clapping and stomping and calling for encores, but Roy just bowed, thanked the crowd for their hospitality and returned to his mates at their table. Yank looked on enviously as drink after drink was laid before the pianist.

The crowd settled back in to its previous activity. The Crown and Anchor game that had been forgotten for the moment was started up and the men returned to their conversations. The piano remained silent until a small shy looking boy that Yank did not recognize was reluctantly pushed forward and took the seat. To Yank’s amazement the room quieted down and it seemed all attention was on this boy.

The first notes of Londonderry Air floated over the room like the ubiquitous smoke. The Crown and Anchor game that had just restarted came to an abrupt halt as the men stopped to listen to the piano. If it was even possible the silence deepened as another Tommy stood up on his chair. He accompanied the piano player, singing Danny Boy, a song that had recently been gaining popularity. The song was written from a woman to a man, but every man in that room was lost in quiet reflection about some pal missing from their party. Men like his friends David McCollough and Lieutenant Smithee both killed last year on the Somme and Hutch, merely a boy but forced to play the part of a man. He did not want to think about the men who would go west during this next stunt.

When the song finished the singer got off his chair and sat back down with his pals. A somber mood hung over the men and it looked like the night might be starting to wind down. Most of the men here knew that they did not have much time left. They’d soon be moving up to the line and most wanted to squeeze as much life into their nights as was humanly possible. Despite this there was a curfew and it was a foolish man who tried to test the vigilance of the provost. Men began slowly making their way out of the estaminet until Yank and Steb were one of last ones left.

As if influenced by the diminishing life in the estaminet, Steb’s mood seemed to drop as he looked at Yank. His shoulders slumped and his eyes became fixed on a spot some way behind Yank’s head. Yank had seen that look on men’s faces before, but never on his friend. Without even looking at him, Steb began to speak.

“I don’t think I’ll make it out of this one pally. I have an evil feeling that I’ll take one next time out.” Yank tried to say something to change the mood or distract his friend, but Steb just waved his hand and continued. “It’s like that feeling when you’ve sat in a card game for too long, you know? You may be doing well now, but there is a losing streak on your horizon. You don’t know when it will come, just that it will, but despite this feeling you continue to play. Here though you can’t leave the table until you hit that ultimate losing streak. I don’t want to play anymore do you get me?”

For a few seconds the two just sat at their table staring across the void at each other with nothing to say. Yank desperately wanted to say that Steb was wrong or that he’d be fine, but both would know it’s a lie. They’d both played the game for too long to suffer any illusions. They both knew too many good men who went west to be able to escape the feeling of the inevitable. Without another word, Steb slid his chair back and headed for the door. Yank got up to follow, but when Steb looked back at him he could tell he wanted to be alone. Yank could use some time with his own thoughts as well and sat back down.

He sat at the table they’d shared for a few more minutes after Steb left before he too headed for the door. Smiling at Marie and Susette who were busy cleaning up their establishment for the next night Yank flipped up the collar of his great coat and stepped out side himself. There was a fine mist that hung over the land, which promised more rain later. The rain had been coming in fits and starts for a few days now and it did not bode well for the coming fight.

[CGM]

jdajd I'm very new to every part of life during the Great War, and I had to look up estaminet, to find out what it meant. I could've waited a little and just read your piece. I really felt I was there and I can still see it all now. Excellent.

Thank you.

CGM

[salesie]

Bit of the old Frog lingo in this one - probably wrong, if so let me know.

Cheers-salesie.

Empty Chairs – Full Glasses (Not for polling)

The three of them stood facing their captors, their backs to the old stone gable of the town’s Gendarmerie Station, strategically placed one-hundred years previously at one corner of the square to enable any incumbents to view the square’s whole panorama from any one of its several windows. Above the door flew a standard bearing the Imperial German Eagle; the Tricolour ripped from its pole and trod into the dirt some three weeks before.

Despite the local German commander’s decree that the whole town turn out to witness the punishment dealt out to anyone caught sheltering enemy soldiers, only around seventy or so townsfolk gathered to witness the prisoners’ fate. Fortunately for the rest, only one section of German soldiers, ten men in all, were now left in the small town; not enough to drag the whole population from their homes.

Women wept, small children cowered close to their parents, but the men stood rigid, defiance etched on their ashen faces, glaring directly at the Germans. A Feldwebel, now the senior rank in the town, and nine men; five in the firing squad facing the prisoners, the other four with rifles and bayonets pointing at the crowd. Their orders, issued verbally fifteen minutes earlier, to execute the prisoners and follow their unit north, before the British arrived.

The old-man, his left arm around the shoulder of a sobbing young woman, his right holding up a youth dressed in a ragged, blood and mud spattered French infantryman’s uniform, made one last attempt to reason with his captors. His daughter had played no part he told them for the umpteenth time, had not known that her brother was sheltering in the cellar. And that he had not sheltered an enemy soldier, he had simply helped his son, and how could a French soldier be an enemy in a French Town?

The Feldwebel stepped forward, gave a sharp blow with his pistol to old man’s already bruised, swollen and bloody face then returned to his men. As he raised his arm the firing squad took aim…

…”FIRE” - BANG, BANG, BANG – “GIVE IT ‘EM!”- “CHARGE!”

The initial volley took down the Feldwebel and the five men of the firing squad, the other four fell to their knees, dropped their weapons and held their hands above their heads as four British soldiers raced across the square towards them, bayonets out in front and yelling like banshees. Screams from the Feldwebel as he writhed on the cobbles, but a quick bayonet thrust from the British Corporal silenced him, George then yelled orders to his men, “Smudger, Dusty, get the weapons and check those four out for any more. Finchy, see if any of these others are still alive.”

But even as he spoke, the men and women from the crowd jumped to their feet and reached the kneeling Germans first, all beaten and throats cut where they knelt before the British troops could regain control. And then the crowd turned on the British; cheering, patting them on the back and trying to lift them shoulder high. George had no choice but to fire a round in the air, before yelling out, “STOP! THAT’S ENOUGH!”

The crowd backed off a few paces in silence. “Bleedin’ hell, George,” Smudger said, “I thought for a minute they were going to slit our bleedin’ throats an all. Can’t believe what they did to them Jerries?”

“Got bigger problems than that, Smudge. Are there any more Jerries around, and how do we communicate with these Frogs? But first - Finchy, get back to the Platoon, tell Mr Robinson that our recce turned a bit sour, tell him what these b*stards were about to do and that we had no choice. Tell him we’ll try and find out whether any Jerries are left in the town and then we’ll retire to the crossroads we passed and meet you there. Got it?

“Yes, Corp, see ya.”

As George issued his orders, the old-man, arms still around his daughter and son, called out, “Merci, Merci, Merci.”

Dusty spoke first, “Bloody hell, George, he’s begging for mercy - the poor old sod thinks we’re gonna shoot him. Don’t worry, T’owd lad, we’re not gonna hurt ya.”

“Don’t be bleedin’ daft,” said Smudger, “Mercy’s their word for thanks, don’t you ever listen to any bleedin’ briefings?”

The young woman, pulling herself away from her father’s protective arm, interrupted, “That is true, Monsieur, he is thanking you for saving our lives.”

“Thank Christ,” said George, “You speak English?”

“Oui, Monsieur, I was friends with the daughter of an English artist who lived here for many years, and we still communicate by letter.”

“Bout time our bleedin’ luck changed.”

“Smudger, button it. Thanks, Miss, my name is George, what’s yours?”

“My name is Yvette, Monsieur.”

“Well, Yvette, we need to know where the Jerries are and how many, do you know?”

“Jerrees? I do not understand, Monsieur.”

“Er sorry – the Boche?”

“Ah, now I understand, Monsieur. They left a short while ago in a hurry, these few were to shoot us then follow.”

“Shoot you for what?”

“My brother was separated from his unit when the Boche came so we hid him, but the Boche found him this morning and said we all had to be executed.”

“B*stards,” hissed George, “Er sorry, Miss, sorry for the language.”

Yvette blushed, “No need to say sorry, Monsieur, you saved our lives.”

“That may be so, Miss, but there’s no excuse for bad language in front of ladies. Now, Yvette, I’d like you to tell all these people to quickly go home, there are only three of us and no telling what the Jerries’ll do until the rest of us arrive.”

“Oui, Monsieur.” Yvette turned to the crowd, relaying George’s message. They quickly dispersed except for Yvette, her father and brother.

“You and your family as well, Miss, we’re moving back out of the town to meet up with the rest of our lads.”

“My brother is wounded in the leg, Monsieur, he cannot walk and my father is too old to carry him, we will stay here for a while.”

“Can’t have that, Miss – Smudger, Dusty, pick up the Frog in the uniform and follow me.”

“Which way, Miss?”

“Thank you, Monsieur, it is not far. My father is the proprietor of an estaminet, a small café and bar, the best in the town, and he will want to thank you with plenty of free alcohol.”

“Have to say thanks but no thanks to that, Miss. Once we get you safely home we’ve got to get straight off and meet-up with our lads. But if you promise me that you’ll never tell a soul that a bunch of Koylis turned down a free drink, then I promise that if we can, we’ll visit your pub and let your father ply us with as much free drink as he bloody-well wants.”

****

All four tried get through the door at once, eager to taste alcohol. After a bit of a friendly struggle they managed to end up inside.

“Sh*te, the place is full,” exclaimed the tall, sallow lance-corporal clothed in British uniform, “it’s already full of bloody squadies.”

“Let’s find another,” said one of his mates, the other two nodded assent.

“No chance,” said the lance-jack, “the Jerries have packed it in and we’re gonna get p*ssed right here. Hey look, lads, there’s an empty table, let’s grab it quick.”

All four made for the table in the bay window, four empty chairs but four full glasses of beer on the table. “Must be taken?” said the lance-jack when spotting the beer, “but sod ‘em, we’ll argue about it if they come back. Sit down, lads, and I’ll order the drinks.”

As their backsides touched the seats, a scuffling sound headed towards them from the direction of the bar, then shouting, “ALLEZ, VITE - ALLEZ, VITE – ALLEZ…” An old-man thrust out of the throng of soldiers, his face reddened with anger and shotgun in hand pointing at the four soldiers who had dared to sit at this table, “ALLEZ, VITE,” he yelled.

A young woman, with a young boy holding on to her skirt, quickly came around the old-man and stood between him and the soldiers, remonstrating with him.

“What the bloody-hell’s going on?” Yelled the lance-jack as all four jumped to their feet.

An old sergeant, sitting at a nearby table, offered advice, “Better move from that table, lads, or you’ll get an a*seful of lead-shot. It’s reserved.”

“Bloody reserved? What do you mean, Sarge?”

“It’s reserved for four Koylis, and only those four, no one else can use it.”

“What? The Koylis are coming here tonight?”

“Not tonight, lad, nor any other night.”

“You’ve lost me, Sarge. Our first night in a new town, we hear the war’s over and we simply want to get p*ssed and then we get all this b*llocks? I don’t get it, Sarge?”

“I thought you were new in town,” replied the sergeant, “You see, lads, this place and that table are legend in these parts. Back in nineteen-fourteen, when our lot were heading back North after the Marne, there was a little skirmish in this town. Apparently, the old-man, his daughter there, and his son, the cripple over there behind the bar, were saved from being killed by the Jerries by four Koylis…”

“What, and the stupid old-sod’s reserved ‘em a table for four bloody years?”

“Let me finish, lad, let me finish. It appears that the Koylis stayed here for a bit, and them four became regulars here. The tale is, that the old-man caught one of ‘em giving one to the pretty Yvette there, but was so chuffed with ‘im for saving his family he didn’t take the shotgun to ‘im. But, so the tale goes, the Koyli was smitten with her anyway, and they married in just over week. It seems that the young sprog at her skirt is half bloody Koyli.”

“So where the bloody-hell are they now?”

“Up at Wipers, lad. All four killed up there the first time around. And ever since that day, that table has been set every morning just as it is now, and no one is allowed to sit at it. Every morning, the old-man pours four beers, leaves them sitting there till the next morning, then drinks each one in turn himself, and after each one says, Vive Jeorge, Vive Smudgair, Vive Dustee, Vive Finchee, then steps back and says, Vive L’Anglais, before clearing the dirty glasses and filling four clean ones. Same thing every day for four years. Funny b*ggers these Frogs you know, lad.”

“Come on, lads, let’s get p*ssed at the bar. Funny b*ggers these Frogs.”

© John Sales 2009.

[Rockdoc]

Superb stuff!

Keith

[Michael Johnson]

Another episode in the saga. Chronologically it happens a little before John gets Marie's letter. I'll adjust my chronology thread accordingly.

"Sergeant?"

I looked up from my book to see several members of my platoon.

"Yes?"

"We're going to the estaminet for a drink – would you like to come along?

Now I can't say that this was a common occurrence, although I had gone along from time to time to keep an eye on the boys and keep them out of trouble.

I shrugged. "I guess I don't have anything better to do. Be right with you."

The estaminet was nothing much to look at – a medium-sized house, with tables and benches in what had been some family's parlour and dining room. As usual there was beer and wine to be had, and some execrable attempts to produce standard pub food.

I ordered a bottle of wine. I preferred it to French beer. I also ordered in French – fluent colloquial French. I found I got better service that way, as they then knew they couldn't pass off the average junk on me.

As I sipped my wine, I caught a few glances and slight smirks on some of the men's faces.

One of the men disappeared upstairs, and shortly after he returned, a young woman came down. Her eyes glanced along the table, and rested on me. She walked on over.

"Monsieur le sergent is lonely, perhaps?" she asked in English. It sounded like a line she had used a lot. Most estaminets had one or two professionals offering their services, despite the best efforts of the Provosts. A "cousin" of the proprietor.

It dawned on me that this was a set-up by my platoon. Part of me thought "You're not Marie – not by a mile. But you're a woman, and not bad-looking. And monsieur le sergent is lonely, and monsieur le sergent will probably never see Marie again. Why not?"

Part of me thought back to the M.O.s lectures on VD, and the effect that a VD entry on my conduct sheet would have. The way I was feeling that wasn't enough to trump my mood. And then in my mind I heard Maman's words in the last chat we'd had before I left. She'd shooed Father out and called me up to her room.

"Mon fils, there is something I must talk to you about. Your father wanted to do so, but he is a Canadian, and would exhort you to remain pure and resist temptation. He does not understand sex very well. Sex is a gift of le bon Dieu – therefore it must be good. You must accept that it is part of you. Women may offer you sex. Some will ask money for it. Some will do it for the fun of it. Some, and these are rare, may offer because they love you."

I looked at her, amused. "Maman, do you think I do not already know this?"

"You do not. The bons pères at your college were clever at many things, but not in this. And you have no experience."

"Not even with Peggy?"

"Definitely not with her. She does not have the generosity. She is interested in a wedding ring and your bank account."

Maman's perceptiveness was uncanny, and somewhat scary.

She continued. "Mon fils, it must never be for money, or for a thrill. If it is for love, that may be forgiven, but if you truly love, you will find the courage to wait. How do I know these things? I was not always an old woman. I was young, I was beautiful, and I had many suitors. I read some of their names even now in the news of the War." She named three men, all of whom I recognized as French Generals. "Do not think that it cannot happen to you, for it can," she concluded.

Experience taught me that she was right. I saw young lads, their Sunday School Bibles still tucked into their kitbags, trotting off to the professionals who gravitate to Army camps. And I saw them come back from hospital, with a VD record and stoppage of pay. I paraded while crying girls with angry fathers searched the ranks for the father of an unborn baby.

I smiled at the French girl. "Peut-être après la guerre, cherie. Allez-vous donc." And I felt a twinge of pain, as the last time I had used that phrase, it was to Marie, as I had stopped her from undressing. And though I'd cursed that decision many times since, I knew that I had done the right thing.

I turned to my men. "Thanks for the thought, boys, but I'm kind of choosy."

And I poured myself another glass of wine.

[Guest]

Salesie----you drew me in, made me part of it, and you made me cry.

Kim

Micheal, well done. It is setting up for a grand finale!!!

Kim

[Guest]

Jdajd,

Felt the music, and the comaraderie in the room. The sadnesss and the loneliness of a soldier.

Kim

[Michael Johnson]

Micheal, well done. It is setting up for a grand finale!!!

Not for awhile, Kim. I've got to backfill a lot of earlier material. There will also be an epilogue, tracing events post 1918.

Can't let it go now, I'd have no life!

Michael

[Guest]

Funny how they become part of your life, isn't it, Micheal? Or maybe not so funny.

Kim

[salesie]

Salesie----you drew me in, made me part of it, and you made me cry.

Kim

No writer can ask more than that, Kim. Thanks.

Cheers-salesie.

[dycer]

Later in the campaign,the "Daily Mail" issued a hand book of interchangeable phrases that led to many humorous incidents.A good one was about two Cockney lads who,having ordered ham and eggs in some French village behind the lines,found the ham was anything but fresh,opened their hand-book in order to formulate a complaint.They did not have far to look.

"Here you are Bill,got it right away,"one shouted out in his most dramatic manner,"Madame,je suis,je suis.'Igh 'am,'Igh 'am."Next they found out they had no forks.only knives.They knew the French for knife,but never bothered consulting the hand-book this time.Bill merely aired his knowledge again and holding up his knife exclaimed,"Madame,apportez moi la fiancee de mon couteau."

George

[Guest]

George, please, for me who murders the French language, a translation please???

,"Madame,apportez moi la fiancee de mon couteau"

Cheers

Kim

[Guest]

"The Estaminet."

The oil lamps sent smoky tendrils towards the low beams of the blackened ceiling. Across the back wall, a faded tapestry of the Last Supper hung, sagging with the weight of years. Small recessed windows of coloured glass, the hand carved wood that held the panes, chipped and shrunken, so one might think that a strong wind would cause the glass to fall and shatter, lined the front wall, giving room only to a door crafted as a barn door might be made. Two sections, each able to be bolted of their own accord, so as on a summer day, the chickens and geese be kept out of the house by the lower door, while allowing the gentle breezes to waft through the top half.

In the fourth wall was the heart of the house, the fire and hearth. From the side of the fire place, a large cast iron pot hung from the metal arm, suspended over the coals; coals from wood gathered from the shelled houses that surrounded the house.

On a three legged stool, an woman sat, the firelight kind to her aging face, the black ill fitting dress disguising the thinness of her frame as she busied herself winding a confusion of fresh spun wool from a woven basket at her feet, into a skein of order and conformity with those that lay in a box beside her. Now and then she would put the wool aside, reach over and with a poker, pull the metal arm towards her, then stir the contents of the huge pot, stabbing at its contents with a long wooden spoon to test the tenderness of the potatoes and turnips.

The sound of tinkling glass caused her to pause and turn, knowing, before seeing, that this would be Suzanne bringing the freshly washed glasses to the tables.

She sighed, pushed the pot back over the fire, and took up her wool again.

‘What have we come to, that we have to have many men in our house, just to survive?’ her thoughts were dark and bitter. 'I…, I that held the esteem of our town as the Maire’s wife, my daughter the most sought after debutante, am reduced to cooking for the Anglais and worse, the L'Australien. Ah, those L'Australiens. They that drink all our wine, demand more and more food, and turn my house into a gambling parlour!’

A piece of wood, once the beam of a ceiling in a house that held her neighbors, fell forward onto the hearth.

“Here Mama, let me.”

Her daughter reached for the poker and, balancing the wood carefully upon the poker, lifted the wood back into the fire. The wood crackled and flames licked upwards.

“Hurry, Suzanne, they will be here soon, with their loudness and their hunger,” the mother chastised her daughter.

“Mama, how can you be so hard on the poor soldiers that fight to help us. They are fighting the Boche and dying. They come here for our good food, and to relax for awhile.”

“And to gamble and ogle you! How do you think I feel to have strangers in my house? To sit where your father and brother sat, and ate?”

Suzanne lowered her head, and brushing her hands against her dress, she knelt beside her mother.

“Mama, these soldiers are all that are between us and hunger. Between us and the Boche. They are dying and they are being crippled, so that we may keep our country. Some have are far from home, from their mothers and family. Is it not our duty to give them a place to feel good?”

“Duty! Duty!” the elder women spat. “Your cousins and brother and father did their duty and are no longer. They have been taken from us, and we are reduced to having foreigners in our house!”

Suzanne bit her bottom lip, holding back the hard words of truth that she longed to cry at her mother.

Staring into the fire, her thoughts chased around as did the flames that she stared at. ‘You can take their money, while you still reject their help, their sacrifices for our country, our lives. I know what has made you so bitter, Mama? But the dead are dead, and we have to get on, get on the best we can. I have lost all the men I have loved. Papa, Nicholas, Cousin Henri. I hurt too. But these men from other lands are dying so that we can live, so that France can live, and they are not French, they are from all parts of the world. What do they owe us? Nothing. But we owe them everything.’

The older woman let the wool fall to her lap, her head drooping.

“Suzanne,” she whispered. “ Suz, you are young. You have your life ahead of you. Now that the Boche are being forced back, you will see a new life, a husband, a baby, a new France. But, I, ………. I having nothing left. My husband, my son, my family, all but you, gone. My friends gone, killed by the Germans.”

She raised her hands to her face, her heaving shoulders the only sign of her silent sobbing.

“Mama,” Suzanne raised herself on her knees and pushed back a lock of hair that had escaped the old woman’s bun. “Mama, I am here.”

The old woman lifted her face from her hands and stared at her daughter, her only living relation.

“Yes, Suzanne, you are here. It is for you and my grand children to come, that I allow these strangers into my house, that I cook and become a servant. Yes, I take their money, and if I seem to be ungrateful, I am not. It is just so hard to see their liveliness, their good spirits, while our men are dead. It is for you, that I do so.”

Suzanne rose from the hearth, smoothed down her dress and lifted her chin.

“Well then Mama, I had better get on with preparing the house for the men who need us, and our food and wine. They who need a place to forget for just awhile, that they may end up like Papa and Nicci.”

Kim

[salesie]

Superb scene setting, Kim - echoes of Dickens - I could feel the place and the mood within.

Loved, as with last month's, the juxtaposition of different generations - but with this one I gleaned an even stronger sense of how we are all products of our past. And, more importantly, of how our past can "take-over" our future if we allow it to. Of how, sometimes, the longer one's past, especially if more comfortable than now, then the more difficult it can be to come to terms with the present and thus conjure up hope for the future, and if one cannot see a future then the present becomes irrelevant and the past becomes our all.

Excellent stuff.

Cheers-salesie.

[dycer]

George, please, for me who murders the French language, a translation please???

,"Madame,apportez moi la fiancee de mon couteau"

Cheers

Kim

"Madam,give me the fiancee(girl, whom is engaged) to my knife"

George

[squirrel]

Some excellent entries so far; moving and thought provoking. Looks like the bar has been raised yet again!

[squirrel]

Here's my contribution..............

The Estaminet

Six of us there were that day

Sat down to drink in the estaminet.

The one that stands beside the road

That leads us off from La Bassee.

The long, long road from La Bassee

To who knows what awaiting they

That tread the road up to the front

That leads them to their destiny.

Six young soldiers left next day

With their battalion full arrayed

And as they passed the Bon Madame

She waved them off from the estaminet.

A smaller group came back that way

And passed the familiar estaminet.

Bent and muddied, stooped and slow,

With faces gaunt and drained and grey.

Two of us there were next day

Went in to the estaminet,

“Et votre amis?”, said Bon Madame,

“We le left them under the Flanders clay”.

©Tony Nutkins May 2009

[Guest]

Salesie, On re reading, it is still making me tear up.....

One of my favourites, by you, so far.

Kim

[Guest]

Squirrel,

"Bent and muddied, stooped and slow,

With faces gaunt and drained and grey."

What a great description of soldiers coming out of the line.

Each word combines with the others to paint a picture of battle weary men who have seen too much.

Keep it up.

Kim

[Guest]

"Madam,give me the fiancee(girl, whom is engaged) to my knife"

Thanks George.

I don't think I made a mistake like that.

Promise to self, learn the language!!! For next visit.

Ta

Kim

[Guest]

BTW What has happened to EOB? I miss his wonderful art.

[Gunboat]

What a blinding start...too much to take in on one visit...well done everyone

I have to say though Squirrel I think that is a cracking poem

[salesie]

Wine, Women and Spirit (Not for polling)

Don’t know where I should be,

Let alone why,

Have yet to learn

To reach for the sky.

Can see what is happening,

Hear what is said,

But what’s the point

If already dead?

For half of a year

I lay on the wire,

No ceremonial;

Just guns’ thunderous choir.

Then all of a sudden

The line took a trip,

And freed at last

From my prison’s barbed grip.

Then down in the earth

They placed my remains,

And spades of dirt

Eased away my pains.

But as last sod was thrown,

God only knows why,

I rose from that place,

Where content to lie.

I know I’m still dead,

Dead for all time;

No earthly life

Will now be mine.

But why this old house,

Where I took my last drink,

And first and last fun

With ladies in pink?

God knows I tried hard

To appear in their midst,

Now they come and go

Knowing I exist.

Still happy to drink,

To gamble, sometimes to maul,

And to pay mamzells

For giving their all.

Don’t get me wrong,

I don’t complain,

I’ve learnt from this;

It’s well worth the pain.

Had trouble at first

Understanding my plight,

But now I’m just glad

To be bumps in the night.

Once I was scared

To look at the living,

Constantly stressed,

So full of misgiving.

But after a while

My fear blew away;

Worse places to haunt

Than an Old French Estaminet.

© John Sales 2009

[squirrel]

Nice one John - kept me concentrating to the last line.

Thanks gunboat - it just came as I wrote the first line - not much tidying up when I'd finished either.

Kim - thank you.

Michael, Keith, jdajd -wonderful contributions.

As Gunboat says - too much to take in in one go - will have another read tomorrow.