Tempting Fate (11 page)

“You can’t stop me from reporting what I saw coming here today, or what you’re telling me.” He planted his feet a little farther apart. “And if you try—”

Major Timbres interrupted. “You are not in America, you are in France, and France is a country at war. We cannot afford to tolerate those who hamper us in the defense of our country.” His English was heavily accented and spoken in French cadences which might have earned him a few indulgent smiles had this been a social gathering, but on this occasion no one was amused.

Douglas gave a truculent sigh. “One way or another, you make sure we do it your way. All right.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “What have you got to say?”

“It will not work quite that way, gentlemen. Two of you will go with Major Timbres, and two with Captain Dos. Both men are reasonably proficient in English and you should have no trouble with them. Both Captain Dos and Major Timbres have dealt with journalists before and have been in action quite recently and so are well aware of the way things stand at present. I would recommend that you divide up, one Briton and one American with each officer, as there are questions that might otherwise go unasked.”

“Why bother, when you’ll disallow the answers they give us in any case?” Douglas demanded, wholly unmoved by the British Captain.

“Because we would prefer to keep the British and the Americans informed on the course of the war if such information does not add to the danger of our fighting men. You mayn’t believe me, but you have my word that it is the truth.” He turned to the two men with him and spoke quickly in French. James listened with great interest, deciding that he would not admit he was fluent in the language. He had already mentioned that he had studied French in high school but was aware that in most cases this meant nothing.

“Can you follow that?” Whitstowe asked James in an undervoice.

“Some,” he answered, frowning.

The Captain addressed the journalists once more. “If you’re ready?”

Gregory Roper, who had been listening to all this with very little change of expression, spoke up. “I would prefer to share my interview with Mr. Tree.” He ignored the angry glance from Douglas.

Major Timbres inclined his head. “Come with me. There is a sitting room at the back of the château.” He stepped out into the hall, not waiting to see if the two journalists were following him.

In the hall the scream was louder, more hollow, coming now in sharp gasps.

“Major,” James said, “what is that?”

“A German,” Major Timbres answered shortly.

“But…” James did not know what next to say. That the man was in terrible pain was beyond doubt.

“Mr.…”

“Tree,” James supplied.

“Tree,” the Major repeated, a little surprised. “Mr. Tree, for the last two weeks we have had reason to believe that the Germans are planning to extend their offensive to the south, but we have had no way to discover more than our suspicions tell us. Have you seen what has happened north of here?”

“Yes,” James said quietly.

“Then you can understand why we don’t wish to have the same thing occur here. It has been several days since that man was captured and we are desperate.” He spoke matter-of-factly, showing no inclination to offer justification.

“But torture…” James began as the Major opened the door to a small parlor looking out on what had once been a garden.

“We have an amusing sophistry we practice with this man,” Major Timbres said with no trace of humor. “He is in the hands of two women. One of them was raped by Germans two years ago, very badly hurt by them. She walks with a cane now. The other woman has lost all her family—husband, father, and six children—to German guns. We have left the man in their keeping and have given our word not to interfere if they will get us information.”

Roper chose an overstuffed love seat. “Don’t you think that you’re bending the rules a little too much, Major?”

The French officer stood still, looking at the ruined windows. “Very likely,” he said after a moment. “I sometimes wonder how I will feel when the war is over, if I am alive. This is not the first man I have heard scream. Most of them were Frenchmen, gassed or shot to pieces by the Huns.”

James and Roper exchanged glances. It was James who spoke. “You are supposed to be telling us about the progress of the war.”

Major Timbres came as close to smiling as he was able. “Yes. It is good of you to remind me. I suppose you’re aware,” he added apologetically, “that what you have heard about the German in the cellar cannot be reported?” He waited until both journalists acknowledged this. “Later, perhaps, when memoirs are written, some of this will be exposed. But that is for history gentlemen.” He looked at the peeling wallpaper of blue stripes and rose garlands. “This must have been a very pretty room, once,” he said, without thinking that he had spoken aloud.

“Yes,” Roper said. “I’ve been in several houses and châteaux in the last two years. It is very upsetting to see what has become of so many of them.” He cleared his throat. “Tell us, Major, how do you evaluate the current military dangers?”

He did not answer at once, and when he did, he approached the question obliquely. “Last October there was an assault on Italy using tactics which the Germans had up until then used only on the Russian Front, called ‘Hutier tactics.’ These are characterized by short, intense artillery barrages, and then fast, mobile advance units penetrate the lines, engaging in little hard-pressed combat, seeking out the weakest points and in that manner breaking up the defensive line. It was ‘Hutier tactics’ that allowed von Below to pursue Cadorna to the Piave River. If we had not sent men to aid the Italians…” He fell silent. “We fear a similar assault here. The Germans have been very successful so far with these tactics. There is little reason to suppose that they will not be so again.” He folded his grimy hands. “In another week, May will have ended. We are worried that the Germans might be determined to begin June with another offensive.”

For the better part of a minute neither Roper nor James responded. Each man was alone with his private nightmare of what could happen here. The German lines were less than three miles east of Rheims, and their two offensives in the north had gained a great deal of ground for them. James looked at Major Timbres. “Was that what they used at Bethune, on the Lys?”

“The German Sixth Army used them, yes. Hutier led his men at the Somme, but luckily France has more heavy artillery than Italy and the advances were not as great as Germany had hoped. We have artillery here, but the Germans are already adapting their tactics to accommodate this.” His exhausted face was resigned. “We must fight. Any other course is unthinkable. We have held them off for a time, but…” He shrugged in that eloquent way that is uniquely French.

“Are you suggesting that we be prepared to lose the war?” Roper asked in a completely neutral tone.

“No,” Major Timbres said, recovering himself. “German losses have been heavy, and they are as damaged by that as we are. They cannot continue indefinitely.”

James turned his head, hearing a bird singing in the wreckage of the garden. The song was pure and liquid, joyous. He let the delicious sound ripple through him, invigorating as good wine.

When the German prisoner screamed again, it was more of a bellow, full of hatred as well as irremedial hurt.

“Good God, Major, isn’t there something you can do?” Roper burst out. “That man—”

“—need only tell us what we wish to know, and we’ll release him from his suffering,” Major Timbres said, his face starting to sweat. “The women have said that they will not let him linger once he has told them—”

The last sound was short and high, more like metal scraping on stone than a human voice.

James could feel his pulse hard against his collar and could not bring himself to look at the Major. He said to his companion, “Roper, I don’t think…”

Roper gestured. “I trust it is over, Major Timbres.”

“I trust so, too,” was the devout answer. “If there is no information, then…” He clenched his teeth so that the muscles stood out on the side of his jaw. “If we cannot learn what it is that the Germans are planning, we stand to take enormous losses. When you think of the number of men already sacrificed to this war, then the death of one German soldier … It is a soldier’s lot to die for his country.” The defiance in his tone was startling.

“Major,” Roper said heavily, “I’m not so naive that I don’t know such things happen in wars, but I had hoped that it was not the French or the British or any of the Allies who indulged in these practices. In your place, however, I would find it most difficult to resist the temptation if it were presented to me.”

The Major said nothing, but the expression in his eyes was eloquent.

James gave a diplomatic cough and searched for another approach. “Major, the people who own this château, what will become of them after the war?”

“Assuming we win?” Major Timbres asked sadly. “They will be given the building back, of course, and there is talk of compensation, but the costs of the war have been high, very high. This family, I know, has a house in Paris where they are living now. They are in what I think the British call ‘reduced circumstances’”—he raised an eyebrow toward Roper—“and I am not sure they will be able to restore this place. They may not want to. It was one of the real jewels before the war; as you can see, it is fourteenth-century with a few seventeenth-century additions. Most of the time this region is fairly prosperous and the châteaux in the area have reflected that.”

“Then it will be left a ruin?” Roper asked with ill-disguised incredulity.

“They can no doubt find a buyer for it, if that is their wish. One or two of the other families whose châteaux have been hurt by the war have said that they would prefer that the buildings be left as they are as monuments to the valor of France.” The Major took a turn about the room. “Many of us on this part of the Front have had to go to these old châteaux and ask that the owners leave them. I have done that myself. It is one of the least gratifying things I have done.” He stopped beside a small, sagging gate-legged table. “You see, we must always assure the owners that we will do everything in our power to see that no part of the property is damaged, but you need only look around you…”

“Where do the owners of these châteaux go? You said that the owners of this one have a house in Paris, but not all of them do, do they?” James was thinking of doing a story, one that would be uniquely his, on the plight of those driven out of their homes by war. He had already seen a few articles on the usual refugees, the displaced people who had been farmers or innkeepers or grocers, but no one had written about those owning land and extensive homes, whose heritage as well as their property was falling to the ruin of war.

“Not all of them, no,” Major Timbres said uneasily. “A few have refused to leave and they have paid the full price for that. The rest have gone to other parts of the country. We have encouraged them to consider the Atlantic coast. That way, if we fail, there will be a chance for them.”

James regarded the Major with steady eyes. “Would you be willing to give me the names and current addresses of some of them?”

“Why?” Major Timbres inquired, though he knew the answer.

“I want to write about them. My paper would be interested.” He had not asked Crandell about the story, for he had thought of it only in the last ten minutes, but he was confident that he would be able to convince his editor that there was merit in the idea.

“Another of ‘The Plight of the French’ stories?” Major Timbres asked bitterly.

“I don’t do sob-sister stuff,” James said a little stiffly. “Look, Major, America may be sending you troops but there aren’t any Germans dug in outside Philadelphia. A lot of people in my country don’t realize what’s going on over here. They don’t know what it’s like to have an invader on their soil. The Civil War was us versus us, and that’s not the same thing. If one family has owned this place since the fourteenth century, it means a lot more to lose it than if a guy in Atlanta has to give up his ten-year-old house and move to Chicago.”

Roper gave James a long, measuring look. “You’re likely to do well in this business, Tree,” he said, as if to himself.

Timbres considered what James had said. “You understand that it is quite possible that none of these people will want to talk to you. Loss of an estate such as this is more than painful.”

“I figured that.” James nodded. “I won’t insist that anyone see me. But I’d like to ask. And I’m hoping a few of them will want the rest of the world to know how much they’ve had to give up.” If some of the names used to have titles, James thought, it would be even better. There was nothing Americans liked better than tarnished aristocrats. He watched the Major as he slowly paced the length of the room.

“Very well,” Major Timbres said. “I will give you a dozen names. A few of them I do not have addresses for, but with a little diligence you should be able to find them. When you do, you must say that it was Captain, not Major Timbres who provided information on them. I had not been promoted when I was asked to discharge that unpleasant duty. I warn you that several of the families were barely cordial. They may receive you in the same way.”

“Were any of them helpful?” James said, refusing to be daunted.

“Grudgingly. There was one, quite a young woman, really, who was gracious and hospitable. She gave me an excellent meal, good cognac, and a few hours’ sleep in a clean bed. I…”—he very nearly laughed—“I was half in love with her by the time I left her château.”

“Who is this paragon?” James asked. “Do you think she’d talk to me?”

“Probably. She has another estate, I believe. In Provence, if I recall correctly. She mentioned Les Diables Bleus. I’m fairly sure she went there. Her name is Madelaine de Montalia.” He did not want to say her name and both journalists knew it.

“Don’t worry, Major. I won’t abuse her good nature,” James said as he reached for a notepad. “Any idea
where
in Provence?”

“No. Doubtless there are records in Paris. Another you will wish to speak to, assuming he agrees, is Henri-Gilbert Griffe. He is very old, with a large family. He has endured much through this war, but he is not bowed down by it. Currently he is living with one of his grandsons near Beauvais. He will be quite willing to speak to you if he is convinced of your sincerity.”