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
