The Golden Shield of IBF (39 page)

Goodman offered Dave Spaulding a Lucky and he took it.

“You really think she’ll come, Dave?”

“I really think she’ll come, Pete.”

Peter Goodman sipped at his wine, shrugged his shoulders. All his life, he’d heard about how terrific French wines were. Evidently, whoever had started those rumors had never drunk wine in this village. “This wine is the pits.”

“Man, I tell ya’. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of real American whiskey, lieutenant!”

“You’ve been reading my mind again, Dave.”

“A good platoon sergeant’s s’posed to read his platoon leader’s mind, sir.”

“So that’s the reason we got off Omaha Beach alive, huh? Glad you told me, Dave. And here I figured the Germans were just lousy shots last June.”

Dave Spaulding laughed.

Peter Goodman swallowed some more of his wine. With the three-day pass, everybody else in Second Battalion C Company had hit the road for Paris. Spaulding, for all his tough talk, was a quiet family man with a wife and two more kids besides the little one, all living in a little house right next door to his repair shop in New Jersey.

When all the guys hot-footed it to Paris, Spaulding—who was also Goodman’s best friend in this part of the world—confided to him, “I’m not goin’ to no Paris, Pete. See, lieutenant, it’s like this. I ain’t been near no woman in so long, I’m afraid I’d do somethin’ damn stupid runnin’ loose in Paris and all. These French ma’amselles wanna make every GI feel like he liberated Paris all on his own. Know what I mean, lieutenant?”

“Hell, we didn’t liberate Paris anyway. It was Ernest Hemingway who led the first troops in. Remember?”

“Yeah! How’d’ya like that guy! A damn reporter leadin’ the army into the city like that! What a crazy thing to do, huh, lieutenant? Beatin’ all them big-shot officers to the punch like that. Gosh! He’s gonna have some swell stories to tell.”

“He already tells some swell stories, that Hemingway guy. So, what you gonna do with three days if you’re not going to Paris?”

Spaulding figured that if he went to Paris he’d be too weak-willed not to cheat on his wife, and cheating on his wife would be wrong. There she was, working in a defense plant, raising three kids and writing him letters all the time about how she missed him and everything.

Spaulding wasn’t going to go to Paris, no matter what.

There was no wife or sweetheart waiting back home for Peter Goodman, but he stayed behind anyway near the little village fifty kilometers outside of Paris, just to keep his friend company.

But a curious thing happened this night. He and Spaulding were tooling down the dirt road into the village in their borrowed Jeep—just like they had planned—when both of them spotted a bright flash of light from just inside the treeline in the woods, just to the north.

After exchanging a couple of worried looks, they stashed the Jeep by the side of the road. Dave had rigged the Jeep’s battery cables so that he could pull the positive one and drop it in his pocket. That way, whenever they parked the Jeep, they didn’t have to worry about a downed German aviator or even an ordinary car thief stealing it. Back in England, before the invasion, the Brits were taking the rotors out of their cars for the same reason, but it was rumored that German pilots were carrying spare rotors that would work in the most commonly encountered English automobiles.

Goodman and Spaulding crossed the road and started into the woods. Spaulding clutched the Rock-Ola Ml Carbine (lighter and handier than his own Garand) which he perennially borrowed from Peter Goodman, Goodman his genuine Colt 1911A1 .45. Armed but hardly ready, they entered the woods.

“If that’s some sorta Kraut signal flare, lieutenant, then—”

“Yeah, I know. We could be looking at a paratroop regiment crawlin’ up our butts in five minutes. Just keep your eyes peeled, Dave.”

The night was particularly dark, only a few stars peeking out from behind the overcast and no visible moon at all. Goodman had his anglehead flashlight stuffed in his field jacket pocket, but wasn’t about to turn it on and reveal his position, just in case there were Germans in the woods and one of them was looking for a target.

But when they reached the spot where they’d seen the flash of light, they found nothing. Goodman ordered Dave Spaulding, “You circle around to the right. I’ll cut around left. Meet ya back here. Be careful.”

“My middle name, lieutenant.”

Goodman only nodded, but racked the slide of his .45 just in case.

After a solid, scary fifteen minutes stumbling on broken branches and sidestepping deadfalls in the darkness, Goodman and his sergeant returned to the road.

That was the first time Peter Goodman saw Eran. Eran was striking, the green of her eyes visible despite the darkness, as if they shone with a light from within. Her hair—it was past waist length—was blacker than the night surrounding her. Her skin was perfect, almost luminescent. She was dressed rather oddly, Goodman thought at the time, her clothes looking more from some style of hundreds of years ago instead of 1944.

She was standing beside their Jeep, looking at it as if she’d never seen something with an internal combustion engine before.

“Parlez vous English, ma’amselle?” Dave Spaulding sang out.

She just looked back at them, saying nothing at all. Goodman tried a significant amount of his paltry French, asking her name, what she was doing on the road after dark, if she were in trouble. For several moments, she said absolutely nothing in response.

Goodman finally said, “Je ne comprens pas Francais tres bon,” which he was sure that he hadn’t said quite right. He followed that up with, “Do-you-speak-any-English?”

She was totally silent.

“I don’t think this little cupcake speaks no English, lieutenant. And your French must be worse than we thought.”

“She could have been injured during the Nazi occupation, maybe deaf or something. Maybe she’s just afraid, Dave.”

“She’s a looker though, ain’t she, sir?”

“Yeah, she’s a looker.” And he looked at her, asking one more time, “Do-you-speak-English?”

“Yes, I do. Who are you?”

Goodman was totally lost. “Look, lady, I gotta ask who
you
are! Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“My name is Eran, and I am looking at this.” She gestured toward the Jeep.

“No, I mean, I can see that. How’d you get here?”

“I was looking for something. I think I found it.”

The conversation went like that for some time, Peter Goodman unable to take his eyes off her, Eran looking prettier by the minute. But he got no information.

When pressed for a last name, Eran told him that it was “something-Mir” that he didn’t quite catch, but he assumed was French.

“I’m First Lieutenant Peter Goodman, United States Army. This is Staff Sergeant Dave Spaulding.”

“Pe’Ter. I like that name.”

“Thank you.”

Peter Goodman knew procedures, and he should have hunted down the Provost Marshall or found some MPs at least. She didn’t have any ID, he assumed, and she didn’t even offer an explanation for being on the road at night. Maybe her bicycle broke down or something. He didn’t put her under arrest. He made her an offer, instead. “Need a ride to the village, miss?”

“I would like a ride to the village. Have you a horse nearby, Pe’Ter?”

Goodman laughed. “No, but the Jeep works fine. Get in.”

Spaulding chuckled under his breath, “Pe’Ter! Well, la-de-da.”

“See to that battery, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir!”

Spaulding popped the hood, replaced the cable and they were on their way. It was a short drive to the village, but Goodman had time to ask, “What was that light out in the woods?”

“I saw it, too.”

“How did you learn to speak English so well?”

“I was always very interested in translating things from one language into another.”

“So, you’re just good with languages, huh?”

“Yes, good with languages.”

Goodman couldn’t help asking the next question. “Can I see you later? I mean, I know we just met five minutes ago, but—”

“Where will you be later?”

“The inn down there in the village. Have a glass of wine with me, Eran?”

“Yes.” When she smiled at Goodman, his heart melted. They dropped her near the village fountain and she disappeared into the shadows between two buildings and Goodman and Spaulding found a table at the inn.

Goodman’s thoughts returned to the present. “You think she’s coming?”

“She’ll be here, lieutenant. Relax, already.”

Peter Goodman looked down at his hands, his fingers beating a tattoo on the table top.

“Yo! Here she is, lieutenant! Snazzy!”

Peter Goodman nearly fell out of his chair. “Holy smoke!” There were maybe a dozen GIs at the inn that night and, if eyes could really pop out of their sockets, there would have been two dozen funny looking marbles rolling across the floor.

“I shoulda gone to Paris!”

“Down, boy. Down. Remember New Jersey.”

Peter Goodman stood up and walked across the room, at least three other guys—two sergeants and a major—doing the same thing. But Eran walked right past everyone else and stopped just in front of Goodman. “Pe’Ter.”

“Eran. You are beautiful.”

“You are beautiful.”

Goodman swallowed hard and licked his lips, which didn’t help because his tongue was dry. “Uh, we’ve—we’ve got a table. It’s over there.” Goodman pointed toward the table with fingers which felt thick and stiff.

“Will your friend the sergeant be with us all night?”

“What?”

“I wasn’t sure of the customs.”

“What?”

“I want to be alone with you.”

“You—all right.” Goodman ushered her back to the table, made eye-contact with Dave Spaulding and announced, “You’ll see to bringing that Jeep back for me sometime tomorrow then, sergeant. I’ll be spending the—I’ll stay in the village tonight.”

Dave Spaulding’s grin went from ear to ear. “Yes, sir! Very good, sir! With the lieutenant’s permission, then, sir! I will take my leave, sir!”

“Very good, sergeant. That’ll be all.”

“Yes, sir!” Spaulding grabbed his steel pot off the table, put it on and saluted. Goodman returned the salute. As Spaulding walked past him, Goodman heard him mutter, “Lucky son-of-a-gun!”

“May I sit down, Pe’Ter?”

“Oh! Yeah!” Goodman stopped just standing beside the table and pulled out a chair for her, helped her into it, then sat down opposite her. He already had a glass for her and poured wine into it, nearly spilling the dark green bottle as he reached across the table.

Eran was dressed totally differently, in a white blouse kind of off one shoulder, a simple dark blue skirt and a shawl around her shoulders which partially covered her bare arms. “It’s kind of chilly tonight. You must be warm-blooded,” Goodman said lamely.

Eran smiled at him. “You are the man that I want. Can we drink wine later?”

Goodman didn’t know what to say.

Eran spoke again. “Is there someplace that we can go?”

“Uh—”

“If that is what you want, of course, Pe’Ter.”

Goodman blurted out, “Look, I think you’re the swellest looking girl I’ve ever seen in my life. But we just met.”

“Then, let’s drink wine first. And then can we go someplace to be together?”

Goodman heard himself saying, “Yes.”

They each drank a glass of wine and Goodman left the table for a few moments, found the innkeeper and paid her twenty dollars US over the cost of a room and threw in two packs of American cigarettes.

When he went back to the table, a major was drifting toward it and Eran, but vectored off. “I got us a room.”

“A room is what we need?”

“Yes. I mean, if you still want—”

“You are very sweet, Pe’Ter.” Eran started to stand up and Peter Goodman got her chair, then ushered her from the table to the stairs just outside. “This way?”

“Yes, Eran.”

Eran started up the stairs, Goodman right behind her. They had room number five. The lock worked—sort of—and they went inside, Goodman lighting the oil lamp beside the doorway before closing the door. Heavy bombardment drapes were hung over the window.

The bed looked clean. Peter Goodman looked around for a place to put his helmet, then started to unbuckle his pistol belt.

When Goodman turned to look at Eran, Eran stood naked before him, but there hadn’t been time for her to undress. “How did you do that?”

“Magic,” she smiled...

Eran screamed, “Pe’Ter! More! More! Fill me!” Pe’Ter’s body thrust against her, within her, then rested over her, still lying between her thighs, his heartbeat strong against her breast.

When his eyes met hers, they hardened and he pushed himself away. “You rotten—”

Eran laughed. “You gave me what I needed, Pe’Ter. Think of it this way: for a short while you were free of this place.”

“Damn you!” Pe’Ter clambered out of the bed, staggered toward the window overlooking the courtyard below. He was staring at the shackles on his wrists. “How could you do that to me?”

“As you told me, Pe’Ter, there is only one thing which I need from you, and you just gave it to me. Admit it! You enjoyed it.”

Pe’Ter, his voice controlled, even, said to her, “That’s just the point, Eran. There’s only one thing you need from me, but I actually loved you that night. And despite what you are, I still love you.”

“Then why must you resist giving me what I need, Pe’Ter?”

“Loving you doesn’t mean I condone what you do, Eran. When you came to me, a million guys just like me were fighting a lunatic, a goosestepping madman, a dictator who didn’t care how many people he killed, who he stepped on. Like some cheap gangster, but with an army behind him. I don’t know how long it’s been, what’s happened back there, but I know one thing. If we haven’t knocked out the Axis by now, then we’re still fighting. Americans, Englishmen, Canadians, Free French, Aussies, Norwegians. It doesn’t matter. We’re still fighting and we’ll keep fighting. And you’re just the same as Hitler. You want everybody to bow down before you and you don’t care a hoot who you hurt or how many you kill. You don’t care about love or honor or human decency. You just care about Eran, and all the power you can get your dirty hands on.