Paris 1918 by Tom Fynes

 

Claire lifted her head from the long oak bar. Six whisky shots were more than she was used to. Adriani was dancing with an invisible girl he once courted in Corsica. The man mountain Manzana was snoring, asleep at a table. Jean-Baptiste, Adrianis brother-in-arms from the same small village in Corsica, was awake and aware. Equally lost in faded memories of their troublesome youth. But always at the ready for action. And very handy with a knife, according to Robert.

Thinking of her last time with Robert, she pulled out the Telegram she’d received from her dad. 

It just said, Robert is reported missing in action. I'm so sorry, Dad.

Robert had sailed over to France with the rest of the US Doughboys and been thrown right into the thick of it.

Claire had followed him over, using her maiden name. And was working as a Doctor in an Army hospital, near the front.

She had rushed here to Bonifacio, on the Rue Lagrange, in the Latin Quarter. The only Corsican owned hotel in Paris. It’s where she had first met up with Robert and his Corsican brigands, as he called them. 

Manzana, the apple eating giant, Adriani and Jean-Baptiste. They’d all stood to attention in their ragtag uniforms and saluted her.

They were, Legion Etranger, and Robert said they where the best soldiers he'd ever served with. He'd been attached to their unit and sourced with stealing new German technology. 

“It's a filthy business,” he’d said, “It can be very dangerous. We end up behind enemy lines a lot. I’ve seen things Claire, done things.” 

And then he had gone quiet.

That had been weeks ago, and not a word since. And now this. A funeral wake for a fallen comrade. He was really gone. 

They toasted him again, but were disturbed when Adriani was accosted by a young English officer, who had rushed in off the street.

“Doctor O'Brian! Are you OK. Have these French bastards hurt you.”

Manzana was wide awake now, and Jean-Batiste had pulled a long knife from somewhere. He stood up, pointed his knife at the advancing British Officer and said, “Rosbif, I'm going to cut you up.” Then he started laughing. Claire recognised the officer as a British patient she had been treating.

He had dropped the crutch he had been using to support himself and was moving to take on Jean-Baptiste. Who was enjoying the prospect of carving up a British Officer.

“Stop, you bloody fools. Vermeer, stop it,” she said to the young officer, “They’re friends. My good friends.”

Now he looked red faced and embarrassed, as only a British man can be, and very confused.

“For Gods sake, they served under my husband. He's dead, he’s dead, so were celebrating his short, wasted life. Grab a chair.”

Vermeer took a stool beside her, and the hotel bartender poured him a shot of Johnny Walker. The three brigands had also taken seats at the bar. Claire raised a glass. “Here's to Weapon Specialist, Captain Robert Stanley March. Another dead American War Hero, and my husband.”

 A great roar of, “Santé,” went up. As they knocked back the whisky shots.

And then Claire finally broke down and cried.