Читать книгу Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #19 - Arthur Conan Doyle - Страница 9

A Breton Homecoming: Conclusion

by Peter James Quirk

(Note: When Part One ran in the previous issue, I was under the impression that this is a true story, but the author just informed me that is really a work of fiction. I regret this misinformation, though it is still well worth reading.

–Marvin Kaye)

The story thus far…

It is the summer of 1940 during World War II, and the French and British forces have been devastated by Nazi Germany’s Blitzkrieg tactics, although the majority of the British army plus many thousand French soldiers were rescued by the British Royal Navy from the beaches of Dunkirk and transported across the English Channel. The remainder of the French Army, those who weren’t either killed or captured, struggled to make their way home. This included many young men from the North-Western province of Brittany, where the fisherman Yann Le Corr and his friend Padrig anxiously awaited news of Yann’s son (also named Yann). Eventually they learned that Yann was wounded and under the care of a doctor in Nantes, a large city in the Loire Estuary. They resolve to go there in their fishing boat and bring him home. As the story continues, the two fishermen have just arrived in Nantes.

2 (continued)

At that moment, the roar of an engine brought us to our feet. And as our eyes scoured the waterfront, a motorcycle and sidecar turned onto the dock from between two abandoned warehouses. It roared up to the jetty, and the soldier astride the machine, a splendidly attired cavalryman replete with helmet, jodhpurs, and black-leather gaiters, dismounted and unclipped a sub-machine gun from beneath the handlebars. He held it loosely but kept it aimed in our general direction as the man in the sidecar, a ranking officer, stepped out and pulled himself erect beside him.

“Don’t do or say anything stupid,” I warned my volatile companion. “Our story is plausible. I just need to stay alive long enough to tell it.”

At that moment, the officer, a major, called out in fluent French: “Step down from the boat and put your hands on your heads. Then walk toward us slowly.”

As we climbed down to the dock and my back was turned to the Nazis, I whispered nervously to my companion: “Be really careful, Yann. The officer speaks very good French.”

“Where are you from and what is your business?” demanded the major as he approached.

We stopped momentarily, and I somehow shook off my funk as though it were stage fright, and I was back at the auberge in front of an audience preparing to tell one of my famous tales of Breton peasant life:

“We are Breton fishermen, Herr Major,” I said, lowering my hands slowly. “We sail out of Kérity, which lies north-west of Nantes, near the Pointe de Penmarche.”

“Ahh, yes,” he interjected, “that’s Bigouden country, is it not? I know that region rather well. I used to spend summers with a family near Quimper when I was a student.”

My face must have telegraphed my amazement, because he laughed out loud as he continued:

“You’re a long way from home. What brings you to Nantes?”

“Herr Major, one of our crew was badly hurt in an accident at sea. We brought him to Nantes and left him with a doctor. Now we have come to take him home.”

His eyes narrowed as he pondered our circumstance. Then he ordered his man to lower his weapon. “We in the National Socialist High Command,” he said, as he reverted to French and his demeanor moderated from menacing to merely pompous, “are acutely aware of the injustices inflicted on the Breton peoples by the archaic feudal covenant still enforced by the local seigneurs and condoned, nay, encouraged by the elitist central government.”

He paused to gauge the effect his pontificating had on us, and then he looked at Yann as though expecting a response, which was clearly dangerous.

“Alas, mein Herr,” I interjected, “we are fishermen, and although we work long, hard hours, we are mostly self-employed; so we are not really affected by the same struggles as farm workers.”

“Well,” he continued. “You will find that the German occupying forces, ably supported by your loyal Vichy government, will improve the lot of both the land workers and the fishermen of Brittany. Tell me, is your friend able to walk? If not, perhaps I can arrange a vehicle to bring him down to the quay.”

“P-please,” I stammered, alarmed for a moment that he might be sincere, “don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.” I paused, grasping for subterfuge. “I believe the doctor has a car,” I added hastily.

“Very well,” he said, pulling a notebook and pen from his pocket and scribbling something down. “Here, take this; this will serve as a safe-conduct through the town. That is my name at the top. Don’t hesitate to try to find me if you encounter difficulties.”

“Thank you, Herr Major,” I said, incredulously, as I stared down at this unanticipated bounty. Yann, who apparently realized that the scales were tipping slightly in our direction, nudged me in the ribs:

“Ask him about the Kenavo,” he said, ever the practical seaman.

“And our boat, Herr Major?” I asked. “My captain wishes to know if we can leave it here safely while we pick up our shipmate.”

“Bien sûr!” he replied, taking back our precious pass and adjoining a hasty postscript. He handed it back with a flourish. “This gives you three days, my Breton compatriot. That should be more than enough time.” With that, he clicked his heels, threw his right arm in the air and rendered the obligatory: “Heil Hitler!” Then the two men clambered back onto their machine and disappeared back between the same two buildings.

Yann shook his head in disbelief. “Did he say what I thought he said?”

“He did,” I affirmed. “According to him, the only reason the Nazis came to Brittany is to help the Breton peasants overthrow their French oppressors. But whatever—as long as we have this pass, we can come and go as we please.”

Yann nodded, then stepped forward with a satisfied smirk and spat on the ground where the German Major had stood just moments before.

We battened down and lashed a tarpaulin over the Kenavo and ventured into the town. This once proud capital of Brittany had been in German hands for just two weeks, and disbelief and even shame were palpable on the faces of the people as they hurried through the streets with heads down and eyes averted.

We found our doctor’s house—a three-level Victorian with roof turret and brick façade—just as the shadows of early evening began stretching into twilight. And when we tapped lightly on the heavy oak door, a woman’s voice, more suspicious than nervous, called from within: “Who are you and what do you want?”

“We are Breton fishermen, and we’re here in search of a shipmate. We were told that Doctor Bertrand might be able to help us.”

“Just a minute,” came the response, and we heard footsteps, retreating—fading. Moments later, different steps—heavier, slower—returned, and then a man’s voice called out from behind the door:

“This friend of yours, does he have a name?”

The moment I responded, the door cracked open and a balding, middle-aged man with a heavy moustache peered out into the gloom. “What makes you think your friend is here?” he asked, as his eyes darted nervously up and down the street.

“We were given this address by one of his army comrades,” I explained. “This is his father, and I am Padrig Le Bras, an old shipmate and friend. We are here to bring him home. Your patient will vouch for us.”

With that the doctor relaxed, and he opened the door wider and stepped aside: “Come in quickly, both of you. The curfew goes into effect soon, and they arrest people who venture on the street at night.”

He ushered us into his surgical waiting room. “Please, gentlemen, sit. It must have been a difficult journey.” He turned then to Yann: “Did you come by train, Mr. Le Corr?”

“Mr. Le Corr speaks very little French,” I interjected. “Do you speak Breton?”

The doctor shook his head apologetically. “No, I’m afraid not. But this is unfortunate; I have bad news, and I would rather disclose it personally.”

My heart sank. “Oh God! No. He’s not dead?”

“Your friend has been through hell these last few weeks,” he replied. “But, no. He’s not dead. But—and I’m very sorry to have to tell you this—last week we had to amputate his left leg at the knee. It couldn’t be avoided; gangrene was setting in.”

I glanced at my companion, but he had not followed the conversation. But when I translated the appalling news, his head slowly sank into his hands and he turned away in despair.

Doctor Bertrand continued: “Your friend is hidden upstairs under the mansard. Come, I will show you the way.”

I tried to put my arm around Yann’s shoulders, but he shook it off roughly as we followed the doctor up the main stairs to a landing overlooking the foyer. He pointed to a huge ornamental washstand that stood against the wall.

“If you lift that to one side,” he said, “you will find a detachable panel which conceals a stairway to the attic. The stairs will take you to your son.” He pulled a watch from his vest pocket and snapped open the top. “You may go up and see him now. But be careful. He will probably be asleep, and he keeps a service revolver under his pillow. If you startle him he may try to shoot you.”

As soon as we removed the panel, Yann called up to his son in Breton and followed his voice up the stairs. The doctor and I lingered on the landing to give them a few moments alone. There was a short, uncomfortable silence, and then we both began speaking simultaneously. The doctor held up his hands: “I’m sorry,” he said. “What were you going to say?”

“Do you think he is fit to travel?” I repeated.

“That’s a difficult question to answer,” he replied. “In a perfect world, of course, I’d have to say no—especially not on a tiny fishing boat. But under these circumstances, I don’t think we have much of a choice. There will never be a better opportunity to return him to his home and family.”

I agreed with that assessment—we had a pass to get us through the town; the boat was ready to sail, and I knew that Yann would never leave without his son. So we began discussing any difficulties we might encounter. And while we stood there on the landing, a tall woman, her iron-gray hair swept back into a chignon, ascended the stairs with a tray of bandages. She and the doctor exchanged smiles and he placed his arm around her shoulders when she stepped onto the landing:

“This is Nicole—my wife, my nurse, and my right hand. She has been taking care of your friend, and I see it’s time to change his dressings.”

We exchanged greetings, and then she slipped into the narrow stair well. The good doctor waved me in behind her, and the winding stairs brought me to a box room tucked directly beneath the slate and lath of the roof. I admit I had not known what to expect when I stepped into the room, but when I saw the figure lying on the floor in that cramped and dusty space, I scarcely recognized my young friend.

Gone was the sturdy, self-reliant young man I had sailed beside for more than a dozen years; in his place was a defeated soldier with haggard features and sunken eyes that were accentuated by shadows thrown from an oil lamp on the floor beside the mattress. I knelt beside him and took his hand, and was rewarded by a wan smile:

“Padrig, Padrig,” he said weakly, “I feared I would never see you again.”

I glanced up at his father as I struggled to find words to reflect my sorrow at his plight while, at the same time, offering some solace. And I realized that, in his devastation, Old Yann had also been unable to comfort his son sufficiently. I turned back to the boy, put my arms around him and kissed his cheeks. But in the end all I could manage was a weak, “Thank God you’re alive,” and I lowered my eyes in shame.

Mercifully, the doctor’s wife set her tray down beside me and began preparations for changing the dressings. So I pulled myself to my feet, took Old Yann by the arm and pulled him gently to one side.

“At least we have him back,” I whispered. He nodded grimly, but there was no joy in those eyes.

During the next few days, I came to realize that my old friend was having great difficulty coming to terms with two inescapable facts: the sudden collapse of the invincible French army, after his comrades and he had struggled for four years in the trenches of the Great War; and the loss of his boy in terms of a shipmate and fellow fisherman. In the Brittany of the thirties and forties to lose one’s only son’s wage earning capacities was a calamity, but to have to nurse and financially support an amputee in addition was a devastating burden.

On the third day, we loaded Young Yann into the doctor’s Citroën CV and brought him down to the river where the Kenavo chafed at her moorings, eager to carry him home. And because his patient was still weak from his surgery, the good doctor helped us carry him on board and make him comfortable on a field cot of fishing nets. Doctor Bertrand then cast off our lines and wished us God speed as we fired up our motor and pushed out into the Loire to begin our return voyage.

And as we island-hopped our way back up the coast, our passenger spent most of the first day in a drug-induced sleep. But by the second afternoon the salt air and the gentle roll of the ocean seemed to be having a healthful impact, so I sat him up in the stern, made him comfortable by propping up his stump with my duffel bag, and offered him the helm:

“Here,” I said, with a wink. “If you can’t pay your passage, you are going to have to work for it.”

His contented expression told me all I needed to know as he grasped the tiller and ran a practiced eye over the trim of the sail. Then he looked off to the south-west over the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean and filled his lungs with air laced with the salt and spray of a thousand waves: “This is where the Good Lord intended me to spend my days, Padrig,” he said. “And that’s exactly what I intend to do from this moment on.”

It was good to see Young Yann in such a positive frame of mind after all he’d been through, and we bantered back and forth, just as we had when he was a boy. And when he asked how we came to find him, I entertained him with a lighthearted version of our preparations and our outbound voyage, making sure to emphasize his father’s critical role.

“But you,” I said, when I had finished. “How did you end up in Nantes, of all places?”

“That’s a long and twisted tale,” he replied. “And I don’t have anything like your story-telling skills. But if you’ll bear with me, I’ll do my best:

3

The regiment is stationed on the Maginot Line—on the edge of the Ardennes—two leagues from the Belgian border. We are bivouacked under canvas and they put us to work digging trenches. All day we are digging trenches—a maze of stupid trenches. In the evenings we sit around in our tents playing cards, drinking cheap wine and reminiscing about our homes, our families, and our former lives. This doesn’t make us feel better, but it does remind us why we are here.

When our captains decide the trenches are ready, High Command comes down to inspect them. There are meetings at Battalion headquarters with parades and inspections—all the usual bullshit. First they make us dig through a mountain of mud, and then they expect us to get all cleaned up for inspection. I tell you, Padrig, the military has some stupid ideas about how to win a war.

But after all that, it turns out they don’t like our trenches, or our position for that matter. The official word is we are too vulnerable. So they pull us back to the next hill and we start over. They pull this shit three times—it’s like they want us to dig a fucking trench all the way back to Paris. But for me, the worst part is the planes. All the time we’re digging, enemy spy planes fly over us, watching us—it’s eerie. But does anyone try to shoot them down or chase them off? Nann! That would be too easy.

Then it begins! Suddenly, there are no more spy planes. Now the air is filled with Stukas raking our positions with machine-gun fire. Then their artillery starts—the sky is black with shells and mortars. The bombardment lasts for two days—we just sit in our trenches with our heads down. On the second day the regimental headquarters takes a direct hit, killing our colonel and his second-in-command.

When we hear about that, my sergeant says that’s the end of us as a fighting machine. He says they were the only officers we had who knew what they were doing. According to him the rest of the staff officers got their commissions from political pandering—whatever that means; and our field officers, he says, are a joke—just kids—wet behind the ears.

On the third day comes the big push—wave upon wave of tanks, with infantry battalions moving in behind them. We try to hold ’em off, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide—men are dying all around me. But it’s the noise that really wears us down. The crash of guns; the screams of the wounded—you can’t hear yourself think.

The sergeant receives word from field HQ: “Begin withdrawing your men in an orderly fashion!” Who do they think they’re kidding? There’s nothing orderly about being in Hell. Some men throw down their rifles and start running. When I see that, I want to run too—I’m just as scared as they are—but I’m in the same trench as the sergeant. But when he climbs out of the hole to try to stop the stampede, he’s cut to pieces by machine-gun fire and his body falls back in the trench on top of me.

That’s it. I’m out of there. We’re all out of there. I heave his body to one side, scramble out of the hole and start running. I tell you, Padrig, I never ran so far or so fast in my life. But when the cannon roar fades and the carnage is far behind, I collapse on the outskirts of a forest hamlet and lie on the ground gasping for air. Some fifteen minutes later, when my body stops heaving and I pull myself to my feet, I discover to my shame and chagrin that my face and coat are covered with my sergeant’s blood.

There’s another soldier from my regiment skulking in the woods nearby, and together we head into the village, slinking between the houses like a couple of thieves. And beside the square, another man I know calls to me from one of the houses. Now there are three of us in this bombed-out settlement not knowing what to do or where to go.

Then the shelling starts afresh and the soldier from the house leads us back inside, and we take cover in the cellar. And for the first time that week I begin to feel safe—the rock walls are dense and substantial. But we’re all exhausted, so we agree to stay there and rest up until dark and then try to make our way back to our lines—wherever the hell they are.

There we are, three Breton peasants sitting in the cellar of a house in an abandoned village in the middle of the Ardenne forest. Shells are flying overhead, and we have no idea where the Germans are, where the French are, or where we are. I am sitting on the floor with my back against a stone wall. Sitting beside me is Joseph Le Bris, a farm laborer from the Black Mountains.

Across from us is Marcel Guillou, a miller’s son from Malestroit, on the Lanvaux Heath, north-east of Vannes. He is the first among us to shake off his fear, and he is soon restless, getting to his feet and poking around, testing the doors and peering into the cabinets.

“Aha!” he says, as he holds up a key, seemingly oblivious to the inferno outside. “This is more like it.” He returns to the only locked door, swings it open and disappears inside.

Joseph turns a contorted and frightened face toward me: “What?” says he.

“Search me,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. But our eyes are on the doorway. Where has he gone? What is he doing?

Marcel reappears with three bottles under his arm. “This’ll make the day go better,” he says.

We are suddenly very thirsty, and we jump to our feet.

“Is it cider?” asks Joseph, doubtfully.

“No. They don’t make cider around here,” says Marcel. “It’s wine, red wine!”

He passes out the bottles, and I seize mine and pick at the cork with my bayonet. It refuses to budge. I jab at it but only succeed in stabbing my fingers. Frustrated, I shove the damn thing down into the bottle. At last it is mine. My lone victory in this crazy war. I hold my captive up by its neck:

“May Hitler rot in Hell,” I say. “Ar Breizh!” I’m not being patriotic; I am railing at a God that allows the blind ambition of a fascist lunatic to put the world at peril.

“Ar Breizh,” they echo, and we take long pulls at our bottles, none of us knowing whether we will ever see our homeland again.

The wine is rich and dry. It rolls down my throat and through my body, embracing and warming me as it passes, numbing my senses. The hell outside begins to fade as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stumble against the wall. Marcel is standing in the middle of the room, savoring a mouthful. But it is Joseph, shell-shocked and frightened Joseph, who captures the moment. He is sitting back on the floor leaning against the wall and gazing reverently at his bottle:

“Jesus!” he says. “That’ll settle your fucking nerves.”

We say nothing more until our bottles are empty. By this time I am back on the floor next to Joseph, and we are both watching Marcel, who is rocking gently back and forth with his eyes closed. Then another shell lands, just missing the house, but the impact throws him to the ground. He picks himself back up, curses the air, and hurls his flagon at the wall.

“Those Nazi pigs,” he says indignantly. “Don’t they know it’s the cocktail hour?” He dusts himself off. “Shall we have another?” he asks, as an impish grin lights up his war-torn and filthy face.

This seems like a good idea to me, but Joseph is not so sure: “I don’t know, Marcel,” he cautions. “We don’t want to get drunk.”

“Why the hell not?” says Marcel. “We could be dead any moment. Let’s go out with a bang. Tell him, Yann.”

“Just one more bottle, Joseph,” I say. “It will keep our spirits up while we wait for it to get dark. Don’t worry, my friend. We won’t leave you down here.”

Marcel chuckles at that and dives back into the stock. He returns with three more bottles.

“Here,” he says, affecting a French accent. “Try a thirty-eight; one of my better years.”

There’s no mercy for the cork this time when I grasp my bayonet, and I drive it straight down into the bottle and take a quick swig. Meanwhile Marcel has pitched one to Joseph, but it slips between his fingers and drops to the floor, exploding at his feet.

“Damn!” he says. And he stares down at the puddle of wine as though it were his own blood.

“After all the crap we’ve been through today, that’s nothing—nothing!” says Marcel. “There’s plenty more where that came from. Here, catch this.” He tosses over the other bottle and dives back into the stock room. Soon bottles come rolling out along the floor.

“Help yourselves, boys,” his voice calls from deep within the cellar, just before another shell hits the house next door.

I don’t remember how long we were down there, because I must have fallen asleep. But the next thing I know, a boot is kicking me in the ribs.

“Raus, raus!” I hear. I open my eyes and find myself staring straight down the barrel of a rifle.

“On your feet! Hände hoch! Raus, raus!” Teutonic roars fill the room.

I look around me. Marcel is on his feet with his hands in the air, and Joseph is picking himself off his knees.

They take us outside and herd us with some other prisoners in the village square. We stand there with hands on our heads while they search the rest of the buildings. Then they lock us in the village hall for the night. And as darkness falls on our makeshift prison the cannons of Hell go strangely silent.

There are about twenty prisoners in the hall, but only five of us are from Brittany. We group together in the back of the room. And as usual, Marcel is nosing around behind a platform. When he comes back, he has news:

“There’s a way out of here,” he says. “And the forest is just beyond the building.”

Joseph and I are ready to follow him anywhere. If he can pull wine out of the air, he can get us out of this. “Fine,” I say. “Anything’s better than a German prison camp.”

“What about them?” says Joseph, jerking his thumb toward the other men standing around in small groups, talking in low tones.

“To hell with them,” says Marcel. “Besides, we don’t speak French. How can we tell them without alerting the Boches?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t just vanish.” I am torn. Leaving them behind doesn’t seem very patriotic, but I know we would have more chance of success on our own. “I can speak a few words,” I offer. “There’s an officer over there. Why don’t I tell him?”

I go to the officer, a captain of artillery, and ask him if he wants to try to escape, although I don’t tell him how. But he’s afraid the Germans will shoot him if someone tries it. I shrug and go back to the Breton group.

“We’re on our own,” I say. “He has cold feet.”

“Okay,” says Marcel. “Let’s wait till everyone’s asleep.”

We all get down on the floor and pretend to settle in for the night. I actually do try to sleep, but my nerves are all jangled up from the fighting, the running, and the wine. Finally, Marcel whispers in my ear:

“Okay,” he says. “It’s time to get the hell out of here.”

One by one, five Bretons sneak under the platform and climb up and out through a coal shoot. We find ourselves in a small enclosure at the back of the hall. There are no guards to be seen, and there are no lights except for a half moon that is diving in and out behind some wind-swept clouds. We wait for a minute, but there is no sound, and Marcel waves us on and leads us single file down a long alleyway to the edge of the sheltering forest.

We walk all night hoping we are going in the right direction. Finally, just as day breaks we come to the banks of a river. We follow the river away from the morning sun, towards the west, and eventually we come to a bridge guarded by a German patrol.

“Now what the hell do we do?” growls Joseph.

“Let’s go back upstream and swim across,” I offer.

But it turns out that swimming is not an option for Breton peasants. So we contemplate fighting our way across, but we don’t even have our bayonets. Marcel, who has become our leader, decides to take a closer look, and he motions me to follow him.

“You men wait here,” he says.

We creep up close to the road and onto a wooded knoll that affords us a view of the bridge. There are two guards at each end, and on our side there’s a light truck parked alongside the road.

Marcel studies the scene for a moment, and his eyes light up:

“Okay!” he says. “The key here is to get down to that truck without being noticed. Stay here and keep an eye on them. I’m going to get the others.”

I take a closer look at the truck and see what got him excited: There are rifles stacked in the back.

I nod and turn back to the bridge while my companion crawls back the way we came. While I am watching, 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.