H.J. Gaudreau - Betrayal in the Louvre (16 page)

Chapter 30

Recheau was frustrated.  He did not like simply following people.  That was work for someone else.  He was a highly skilled professional.  He had been behind, in front, and beside these two Americans all day and for what?  They’d driven around the countryside, only stopping the car to answer nature’s call.  He’d nearly crashed into the fools when the man stopped the car around the bend of a blind curve.  They kept looking at barns, becoming excited at every barn they saw.  First they’d drive past, then back up and study the barn.  Sometimes they’d walk to the barn and around the barn.  Once they found the owner of the barn who seemed as mystified as Claude as to why two damn fools would want to poke around his barn.  What was so special about barns, barns, and more barns?  They had walked around the village, first to one end, then back to the other.  They’d sat.  They’d walked.  They’d gone back and forth to the same place two, three times.  And the entire time Claude had watched them, staying out of sight.  He deserved more money.  These two were idiots and they were driving him insane.

Now Recheau was sitting in the front of the little Fiat watching the inn where the two fools were now.  They were sitting on a porch with a
petit chat
.  Recheau disliked cats.  He took a last bite from a brioche and tossed the rest into the back seat.  He wiped his hands on his pants, reached into his pocket and removed his cell phone.  Another thing about modern life he did not like.  Now, his employer wanted a report every night, sometimes every hour.  The idea of being a professional and making his own decisions was out the damn window.  He dialed and after a few moments heard a grunt. 

“I followed them.  No, they didn’t find anything; they looked at barns.”  He frowned.  “Yes damn-it they just looked at barns.  They’re back in the inn.  They’ll be looking at more shit-filled barns tomorrow for sure.”  He hung up and began thinking of how he could safely steal a different car in this little village tomorrow.

Paul Marcil smiled.  Recheau was a crude son-of-a-bitch, but he was effective.  The man always wanted to take action.  He rarely knew what the appropriate action was, but he was ready for it.  Men like Recheau were distasteful but, they were entertaining…and useful. 

Marcil now turned his attention to the question of what the Crenshaws were doing looking at barns.  They obviously knew that a barn played an important roll in the finding of additional items, but they did not seem to know which barn.  How would they know when they found the right one?  He briefly thought about having Claude pick them up and getting that information from them.  He decided that was simply a waste of time.  After all, he’d then have to find the barn himself.  No, it was better to have them continue to look.  Recheau hadn’t been spotted yet.  At least he claimed that he hadn’t.  It was only a matter of time.  The village was small and Claude was as much a stranger there as were the Americans.  He thought about that for a moment longer then made his decision.  Recheau was efficient at most tasks, but he was not an intelligent man.  This job required a bit more.  He picked up the desk phone and dialed.

Chapter 31

The next morning began much the same as the previous, a small breakfast, café and then a map review.  Jim and Eve continued to search the countryside for a barn with a view of the town, across a field fronted by a wood.  It was impossible.  They’d seen every barn in the area…two, even three times.  This was becoming hopeless.

Jim could now provide a dissertation on French barns.  The
pan de bois
style was used.  Every barn displayed the creativity of its builder, but most had a sort of Germanic style.  Jim guessed it was from the proximity to Germany and the many cross border invasions, trade and family ties that had developed over the millenniums.  Typically, the timber was visible on the upper level but not the bottom.  Traditional full timber framing was also visible.  The walls were filled in with anything from mud and straw, wattle and daub, or horsehair and gypsum.  More recently built barns or recently renovated ones used bricks and concrete mortar. 

They spoke with several farmers, always an adventure using Eve’s limited French and their pocket dictionaries.  They did manage to have a great time, were offered several lunches of wine and bread and generally enjoyed the day.  But, by early evening they were forced to admit defeat.  They returned to their inn, went to their room, kicked their shoes off and collapsed on the bed.  After several minutes of silence Jim asked if Eve was ready to go to dinner.  She didn’t respond.  He looked over to find her fast asleep.

Jim sat in the lounge chair reading the history of the 32nd.  It was truly fascinating.  The narrative had begun with their participation in the Texas campaign and the pursuit of Poncho Villa.  Jim was now well into the history of the unit’s campaign in France.  Eve still slept on the bed.  The evening light had faded, and he had only a small table lamp to read by.  Suddenly he sat up in the chair.  He had reached a passage describing the attack on Chehery. 

The attack on Chehery was scheduled for 0700 on 26 August 1918.  It was designed to be a frontal attack by the 126th Infantry Regiment under Colonel Joseph Westnedge.  Companies A, B, D, and H were to attack from the south and east of the town.  The attack took place as scheduled.  Companies A and B attacked frontally after thirty minutes of mortar bombardment.  Captain Russell, commanding Company A, led a charge across fifty yards of open ground into withering enemy fire.  Some casualties were sustained in this attack, but the majority of the enemy had already retreated to the interior of the village.  Company H, under Captain Davidson, attacked from the east of the village and poured considerable amounts of machine gun fire into enemy locations in support of Captain Russell’s attack. 

Subsequently, Captain Davidson dislocated from the eastern edge of the village, pivoted and entered the village from the north.  One H Company soldier performed the extraordinary feat of single handedly capturing a large inn.  Private Donald Ross, of Owosso, Michigan, found a staircase to the roof of the building and was able to enter from the attic window.  The enemy, not expecting an attack from within their fortress, were taken by surprise.  Private Ross killed seven Germans within two minutes.  After thirty minutes of desperate fighting the small village was liberated with the unfortunate loss of fourteen fine soldiers. 

Jim looked around the room and wondered if he was in the very building he had just read about.  He sank back in his chair and tried to imagine the events of nearly a hundred years ago.  The description of the battle was brief, the action obviously intense.  But, most importantly, his Great grandfather’s unit, company D, was mentioned.  He was on to something.  After a few moments lost in thought Jim stood up from his chair.  He took a blanket from the closet and covered Eve, refilled his wine glass, and sat back down in the chair.

Chapter 32

August, 1918

I

The D company commander was a well-liked man.  He’d trained at Camp Custer with most of the men, had been with the unit in Texas, and was a native Michigander.  Unlike most of the men, Captain Walters was not from Detroit or the surrounding area.  He was from “Up North” near Charlevoix and both his accent and his knowledge of the woods bespoke that fact.  Now Walters was kneeling beside a large oak tree, peering across a dark field in front of him. 

“Sergeant Walkoski, where da hell is H Company?” he spat.  It was more something to say rather than a request for Walkoski’s input.

Walkoski was from Detroit and was considered to be ‘a damn fine soldier’ by his boss and his men.  He’d been with the 32nd since it was formed with the boys from Wisconsin mixed in.  He’d been to Texas after the Mexican, and he’d actually been one of the few who fired a weapon down there.  Now, here he was trying to keep a Company of young scared kids alive.  He hid his discomfort.  If the Captain didn’t know where they were how the hell was he expected to? 

“I think they’re just a bit to our south, sir,” he said, not feeling very confident about his guess.  He liked Captain Walters.  The man knew his business.  It was a rare thing for the Captain to ask a question like that.  This march had turned bad shortly after dark.  They’d been forced to march on the far side of a ridge lest their movement be heard or seen by enemy outposts.  Then, after the Captain judged they had travelled the appropriate distance, they crested the hill and found a thick wood to their front.  The dark sky and forest canopy made navigation extremely tricky.  But, Walkoski was sure of one thing, if anyone could get them to the proper demarcation line it was this woodsman Captain of his.

Walters checked his retort at the ‘I think’ comment of his Sergeant.  Fact was, he wasn’t sure either.  The woods they’d come through in the darkness of the night had been longer and thicker than most in this war cursed land.  It had also been wet, muddy and filled with vines that had turned him and everyone else in circles several times.  Walking a straight line in that mess had been impossible.  There had been a light rain all night, just enough to make everyone cold and miserable.  Clouds overhead had blotted out the moon, and the darkness had covered them like coal dust.  His compass only told him what direction North was, but not how far off course he’d actually gone.  Now he stared hard across what obviously was a large field, the faint outline of the village was silhouetted against the lighter clouds.  He suppressed a little smile.  He’d actually found Chehery in the friggin’ rain and dark. 

Walters sent two men across the field to find out more.  Then instructed Walkoski to check the men and have them relax for a few minutes.  After fifteen minutes the two scouts returned.  They reported the field to be over a hundred yards wide, no ditches or broken ground in the thing, just weeds, then the village.  They’d have to cross the field.  Hopefully the enemy wouldn’t spot them at the half-way point, there would surely be hell to pay if they did. 

“Pass the word.  We’re moving across this field into that village in five minutes.  Tell the men to keep it quiet,” Walters said.

Walkoski turned and hurried back to tell the men.  He didn’t like the feel of this.  What time were the other companies going to attack?  The troops moved up to the edge of the woods.  He could hear men muttering; some said the “Our Father,” others the 23rd Psalm.  Returning to the Captain’s side he asked about the other groups.  “We’re supposed to be first.”  Was the only response he got. 

After what seemed an hour, but was really only three minutes, the Captain stood up.  Seeing the Captain stand Walkoski did likewise, then he kicked the man next to him and he too stood.  Suddenly the entire edge of the woods came alive as ninety men got to their feet.  Captain Walters began to walk across the field.  Walkoski crossed himself and did likewise.

The troops walked steadily and quietly across the field.  One man let out a low curse as he tripped on an unseen shrub, otherwise silence ruled.  Clouds rolled overhead.  They were ten yards out from the edge of the woods, then twenty.  After two or three minutes they had crossed half the field.  The darkness was beginning to pale in the east, but the sun wouldn’t be up for another twenty minutes.  They’d be in the village by then, and the light would be to their advantage.  They just needed to get across this field.  The clouds continued to race across the sky in the freshening wind. 

II

The fate of the combat soldier often turns on something other than his own skill.  A bullet hits or misses its target depending on the slightest gust of wind in the madness of a battle.  A branch snaps under a boot, a message lost or untimely or any of a thousand other things can be the difference between life and death.  But, the most uncontrollable and most pitiful circumstance is that created by a juxtaposition of natural phenomena and accident. 

It was just as Captain Walters passed the forty-yard mark that one of the German soldiers felt the call of nature.  The man stepped outside the building he was billeted in, walked across the back yard to the edge of the field and unbuttoned his trousers.  He titled his head back and watched the clouds, backlit by the moon, race past.  Just as he finished his business and was rebuttoning his trousers the clouds racing overhead parted, allowing moonlight to stream through the opening. 

Unfortunately for Captain Walters and the men of D Company the moonbeams fell across them like light from a movie projector.  Pale white soldiers were illuminated in the field in front of the German soldier.  The man, terrified, forgot the remaining buttons and immediately ran to the large dinner bell on the side of the building.  In a moment the bell rang out long, loud and shrill.  The sound shattered the darkness.  Men began to yell from the village, followed by yells from the field.  Captain Walters screamed “C’mon boys!” and began to sprint.  The soldiers of D Company followed suit, racing toward the village…exactly into the pre-targeted machine gun fire and falling mortar rounds of the fast reacting Germans.

Captain Walters led the charge.  He went about ten steps when the first mortar round exploded.  It fell at his feet, exploding as he hurdled the impacting round.  He never knew what happened and disappeared in a mist of blood and tissue.  Sergeant Walkoski saw what happened to his Captain, but didn’t have time to react.  A machine gun began clattering just at that moment, its operators focused on his stomach.  Sergeant Walkoski was cut in half seconds later.

Private Oushel Crenshaw and two others were on the far right of the line as it moved forward.  At the sound of the bell they began a sprint toward the village as did all their mates.  Oushel glanced to his left and saw the rest of the company running with him.  Then, to his horror a red mist appeared where Captain Walters had been.  He could hear the clack-clack-clack of a single German machine gun.  Oushel screamed and kept running.  Fear washed over him.  More machine guns joined the first.  An explosion just behind knocked him to the ground.  The man beside him didn’t move.  Oushel jumped up and continued to run.  Suddenly there were no bullets zinging around him; he could see his friends falling but there was no sound.  Crenshaw then realized a large barn stood between him and the village.  A side door was open and directly in front of him.  He dove through the door and landed on soft dirt.  An instant later another man did the same and landed on Oushel.  

Corporal John Turner looked at Oushel and said something.  Oushel couldn’t hear Turner even though he was less than a foot away.  His ears now began to ring.  The mortar explosion had temporarily deafened him.  “What?” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the explosions of the mortars and the clacking of the machine guns. 

“We sure as hell got our hats handed to us out there Oush.  You okay?”  John yelled back. 

Oushel just looked at him.  Realizing what had happened John quickly searched Oushel for blood.  Satisfied he wasn’t hurt Turner crept to the far wall and looked out at the village.  Oushel sat back against a door post.  His uniform was wet.  He couldn’t tell if it was just wet from the march through the woods and run through the wet grass or was it blood?  Maybe it was blood, he was in shock and John didn’t want to tell him.  He was going to die.  He thought of his mother.  His hearing began to return.  Finally, he decided that nothing hurt so he mustn’t be shot.

“I’m fine.  You?” he yelled.  John nodded that he was fine and went to the end of the barn.  When he came back he cupped his hand over Oushel’s ear.  “We’re about fifteen yards from the rest of the boys.  There’s a road and open pen between us and them.  We can’t cross it just yet.”

The rest of D Company sprinted through the falling bombs and zipping bullets to the edge of the field.  Clearing the field they crossed the road and nearly went headfirst into the heretofore unseen and unknown creek.  Here they were stopped.  The creek was flooded from the nights rain.  They tried to hide in the tall grass along the edge of the creek, but grass does not stop bullets.  To their right stood a barn which gave shelter from the gun fire on that flank, but an open piece of ground where the road turned and crossed a small wooden bridge prevented them from getting to the barn.  They couldn’t get to the village so they bunched up in small groups on the bank.  Here the loss of Capain Walters was most acutely felt as the bunched up soldiers drew the fire of the Germans.  Losses began to mount. 

Behind them the road paralleled the stream and then bent away from the village.  After the road bent left it paralleled a low hill.  The hill was covered with trees.  After what seemed like an hour, but in reality was only minutes, Sergeant Walacowski, only 22 years old from Hamtramck outside of Detroit began to organized the men.  Crawling from group to group he got them dispersed.  Then, he began a phased withdrawal toward the hill to their left.  Slowly they began their escape.  Nearly half their number were missing.  

Corporal Turner stood next to the large barn doors, peering through a crack in the wood.  Private Crenshaw at the other end of the barn watched the village.  The gunfire was concentrated on the position of the company just twenty yards away.  Fortunately the mortars hadn’t found the range.  Crenshaw spotted a group of Germans carrying a tripod and its machine gun attempting to circle the barn and flank them.  He eased his rifle out of the window and fired four quick rounds.  Two went down immediately.  The other two turned around and sprinted for the village.  Oushel took careful aim and stopped them both.  After a moment the gunfire slackened as everyone assessed their positions. 

Suddenly the ten men closest to the barn leapt to their feet and sprinted ten yards further away from the barn.  Nearly simultaneously a Maschinengewehr clattered from the building nearest them.  The aim was wild and cut across the wall of the barn, out across the field and followed the men as they ran.  When they dove to the ground the streaks of death passed over them and down the line, failing to find anyone fool enough to take to their feet. 

Oushel backed away from the window and began to tell Turner of his success stopping the machine gun crew.  John Turner stood with his hand on his chest, blood oozed through his fingers.  He looked horrified.  Then he fell forward, no arms extending to break his fall.

Oushel choked back a tear and began to shake.  He was going to die here and he knew it.  He crawled to the body.  John was dead, sure enough.  What was he going to do now?  John had always told him, John knew the answers.  He crawled to the barn door and watched his mates move to the hill and woods.  Each yard they crawled was one yard further from him.  He began to feel desperately alone.  He belly crawled to the far corner of the barn and into a stall.  Moving to the back of the stall he sat with his back to the wall, his knees against his chest.  His body began to shake.  After a moment, the shaking reminded him of deer hunting as a boy.  He’d sit in the winter woods, shivering in the cold, waiting for an unsuspecting whitetail.  The thought brought a strange sense of normalcy, and he began regaining control of his nerves.  Quickly he took stock of his situation.  He knew the barn would be searched.  He had to either get out of this place or hide.  Rejoining the company was out of the question.  The sun was up.  No more hiding in the darkness.  It was too far across open ground to run, and he couldn’t get there without being seen.  He’d have to hide.

He found a shovel hanging from the wall of the barn and began to dig.  After two feet his shovel stuck in the dirt.  He couldn’t penetrate the soft ground.  Panic swept through him.  Dropping the shovel he began to scrape at the ground.  Canvas.  He found canvas at the bottom of the hole.  He scraped the dirt off the object and pulled it out.  He glanced at the cloth mass and tossed it over the wooden half wall into the adjacent stall.   He went back to digging.  After another foot of digging his shovel hit something hard.  He dug along its length finding it to be fairly long. 

A burst of gunfire erupted from outside the barn.  Several explosions quickly followed.  He quickly laid down in the hole checking it for size.  It was a bit short, frantically he scraped more dirt out.  Satisfied he put the shovel back in its hanger on the wall.  Then, sitting in the hole he pulled dirt and straw over his legs.  He rubbed his filthy hands over his face and then dragged several large handfuls of straw over his stomach and chest.  He laid back in his hole, pulled more straw over his face and wiggled deeper into the dirt.  This would have to do.  He settled into a long wait for life or death.