Little Corner of Heaven

By Vicki Schmeling

(Canteen)

The previous three days had exhausted what remained of King Company. The men had earned a few days rest. Billy and Littlejohn found space to sleep in a dilapidated store. Sergeant Saunders sought out the showers. Doc refilled his medical bag and settled into a spot near the Cadien they called Caje, who seemed lost in another time and place.

The people of Evreaux were finally able to relax and enjoy their “liberation” from the Boche. Someone at a nearby café was playing a jaunty tune on an accordion. A fiddler joined in.

“Wish I could play something like that,” Doc said, but Caje hadn’t heard him. The music from the café transported him back home to Louisiana. He was quietly remembering a lesson long ago from his Grandpere.

“Only seven notes on the Cajun accordion, mon petit-fils,” the old man explained as he helped young Paul LeMay shoulder the squeezebox. “You have to make them count.”

The old man taught the boy everything he knew. Young Paul never tired of having his Grandfather teach him. He tried so hard to learn to play—to please Grandpere. Fortunately

for Paul, what his old accordion lacked in subtlety, it made up for in volume and sheer indestructibility—making it the perfect choice for a seven-year-old boy.

The accordion and fiddle played faster and faster. Young women danced in broad circles, each grabbing at the young men who watched. One tall girl took hold of Caje’s hand

and drew him into the circle. They danced through the end of the “Two Step” and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“You hungry?” Doc asked out loud.

“Sure, Doc,” Kirby answered.

Food enticed the crowd as rich smells wafted from the kitchen. Andouille sausage with its spicy smoked flavor, thick crawfish bisque, and Caje’s favorite, Boudin, all were

eagerly anticipated by the crowd. Etouffee, file gumbo and Maque Chou rounded out the feast.

Caje could almost taste the Bouillie and Cafe au Lait for dessert. All he needed was a bit of praline and a taste of that lovely dancer….

“Caje…Caje.” He felt a hand on his shoulder. He slowly opened one eye fully expecting to see the pretty girl.

“Caje.” Cold reality hit him in the face.

“This better be important!” he hissed before he realized who was shaking him.

“It is,” Saunders said.

Caje looked up into the unshaven face of his sergeant. “For the love of God,” he started to complain. Saunders’ expression told him to curb his enthusiasm.

“The Lieutenant needs you over in the church.”

The Scout knew better than to question why. He stood, stretched is lean body a bit, grabbed his rifle, and hustled to the church.

Standing at the back of the church, Lieutenant Gil Hanley quietly observed the priest. He leaned his tall frame against the wall, balancing himself with the bottom of his right foot pressed flat on the rough stone block, his arm resting upon his raised knee, which served as a crude corbel to keep him from toppling. He didn’t feel at all comfortable with organized religion; his Mother’s side of the family was Jewish—which technically made him Jewish as well—but no one in the family was particularly devout.

He badly wanted a cigarette, but even he knew better than to light up in a church—at least inside a functioning church. It was different, he reasoned, being trapped inside a bombed church. Then it was okay to smoke. Unless the only smoking going on was the burning edifice. Edifice is a funny word, isn’t it? He realized his thoughts were rambling.

He straightened up when he saw Caje approach the altar. The scout genuflected as he quickly made the sign of the cross. The fluid motion seemed so natural; Hanley felt a twinge of envy and wished he had something strong in his life to hold onto when the going got tough. Of course, he had his military training, however brief, and his overpowering sense of appropriateness which followed him like his shadow.

Hanley reached down, grabbed his rifle and started across the narthex, although he didn’t know there was a name for that portion of the church. He moved like a natural athlete, which he wasn’t, unless you counted shooting hoops as a kid. Caje—now there was a natural athlete.

The priest finished what he was doing and left the altar. He crossed the chancel and disappeared through a small doorway. Caje, standing at the east end of the church, slowly turned and faced the oncoming Lieutenant.

“Sarge said you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, Caje,” Hanley answered in hushed tones. Cocking his head he gestured toward the back of the church, which is technically the front of the church, the west end as it is called. But a non-Catholic wouldn’t be expected to know that, unless he was an architect or something, which Hanley decidedly was not.

The two soldiers stopped by the main entrance doors just as one opened.

“Captain Jampel,” Hanley said, “Caje is the best man I have for the job.”

Caje started to salute, but the captain waved him off.

“Not only does he speak French, he’s also a Catholic,” the junior officer explained.

“If Lieutenant Hanley says you’re the best man for the job, then so be it,” Jampel said.

“Yessir,” Caje responded. “Just what job is it we’re talking about?”

Simple, direct, to-the-point. Hanley liked that about his private. Said private, however, was feeling apprehensive.

“What’s going on, Sir?” He looked directly at Hanley, slightly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

Hanley, in deference to his superior, turned the conversation over to Jampel.

“The Maquis have been smuggling downed pilots back to Britain for some time now. It starts with village priests and doctors,” Jampel said.

“They’re the trusted class of the countryside which is why farmers who find downed airmen in the first place usually go to the nearest church or doctor. From there it’s a series of safe houses all the way across the country. It worked smoothly until recently,” Jampel continued.

“It has become evident that traitors have infiltrated the operation,” Jampel said. “They’ve sought outside help and S2 volunteered our services.”

The two officers and the still-wary enlisted man made their way to the front pew and sat down.

Captain Jampel continued, “The Maquis report the Gestapo found out and a local priest was arrested and deported just last week. We need to get a sympathetic replacement into the system right away.” Jampel cocked his head toward the Private. “That, Caje, is where you come in.”

Caje narrowed his dark eyes and stared questioningly Jampel. “I don’t understand. What can I do?”

“You can be a priest.”

“A priest! Oh no, no, no, not me, Sir,” Caje said, opening his eyes wide. “How can I be a priest?” The private looked imploringly at his Lieutenant.

“You can’t actually be a priest, of course,” Hanley said. “But you know the language and enough about the rituals to get by, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so, Sir.” Caje shook his head and said, “I don’t have to say a Mass or anything, right?”

“Of course not,” Jampel jumped in with the answer. “Basically, I need you to escort a wounded officer through the line so we can find out who the leak is.”

“A wounded officer?”

The captain nodded in Hanley’s direction. “That’s right, a wounded pilot.”

Hanley smiled sheepishly and said, “I can’t send you out all alone, can I?”

“That’s not all, Hanley. You’ll meet up with an American OSS agent; she calls herself Marie Monin.”

“A woman?” Caje asked.

“Yes…she is your best chance for success, if only you …”

The door of the sanctuary banged open, abruptly ending the conversation.

“William G. Kirby at your service, Gentlemen.” Kirby lurched into the building. Hanley shot him his raised-eyebrow look, the one that usually shut Kirby’s mouth. A quick cock of the head indicated to the private that he should sit down and be quiet.

“I’m glad you’re here, Private,” Jampel said. “Hanley, you’ll fill him in, right?”

“What’s goin’ on?”

“I think we’re done here, Lieutenant.” Jampel rose to his feet and started for the door. “Good luck,” he said and left the church.

Kirby and Hanley hid in the underbrush feeling vulnerable without weapons. Bandages kept Hanley’s right leg from bending, which made crouching difficult. He didn’t like the idea of wrapping his leg to imitate a wound. Limping was one thing; this would not hold up under any scrutiny.

Kirby’s skull was wrapped tightly to simulate a bad head wound. “How long we gotta stay here, Lieutenant?”

“Quiet!” Hanley hissed. “Or I’m going to wrap up your mouth good and tight.”

The Maquis had arranged a meeting with a woman who would get them into town. In the distance they heard the slow creaking of wooden wheels as a horse pulled an old hay cart toward their hiding place. As the cart pulled near they could see a hearty milkmaid, gently prodding the old horse as it pulled its load. She walked with a slow, swinging gait revealing the hint of a limp. She wore thick skirts and layered woolen shirts.

“Just like ‘em to send us a cripple,” Kirby muttered as Hanley shot him a glance. Even in the dark, the soldier could feel those green eyes boring into him.

“Lieutenant Hanley? I am Marie Monin. Get into the cart.” Her voice contradicted her apparent age.

They crawled into the cart and burrowed into the hay. Within twenty minutes they stood outside a church, watching as Marie pushed open the large front door. A heavily padded, but vaguely familiar priest held open the door and beckoned everyone inside.

Kirby nearly forgot himself and hollered, “Caje!” Having anticipated what would have been the consequences, he lowered his eyes and crossed the wooden threshold.

“You will be safe here,” the woman said. She turned and motioned the priest into a corner. Together they murmured a brief exchange. The woman disappeared in the darkness. The priest then led the way down the steep stairs, his Cossack gently rustling, until they were well beneath the church. The going was slow as the tall officer dragged his right leg and clearly had difficulty navigating the narrow staircase.

It seemed like an hour before they reached the bottom of the stairs; it had actually taken less than a few minutes.

The cleric paused before another door, raised his head and pulled back the hood of his brown cloak, revealing the lean youthful Private.

“I am called Frère Philippe,” Caje said softly as he held open the ancient wooden door.

“Here we have safe haven for some of your allied brethren,” he said in a much louder voice.

“Huh?” Kirby said before Hanley shushed him. The officer cautiously glanced around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. Four beds were lined up in along the perimeter of the large room.

“Here, soldier,” the Priest said as he led Kirby to the bed. “You will rest here until the doctor sees you.” Kirby knew by now he’d better just do as he was told. Besides, he convinced himself, his bandaged head was beginning to really hurt. He sat, and then stretched out on the bed.

“Lieutenant, you will be here.” Hanley carefully lowered his long frame down onto the small bed; his leg was still and he longed to take the bandages off and scratch the annoying tickle on his right thigh.

“How long will we be here?” Hanley spoke softly, unsure who was really listening.

“Only as long as necessary. The doctor will let me know when you can leave.” Caje tilted his head toward the corner of the room. “The Doctor…” He fell silent; making it clear to Hanley that someone was approaching.

A rotund man approached the new arrivals. He moved with an ease that belied his size.

“Bon soir, mes amis. I am Docteur Michelin. I shall examine your wounds momentarily.”

Caje narrowed his gaze slightly, almost imperceptibly, to all but the Lieutenant. He’d seen that steely gaze many times. The message was clear: this doctor was not to be trusted. Hanley clenched his teeth; his wound would not pass scrutiny. His worry was immediately relieved when Marie Monin breezed into the room. She looked very different now. Gone were the layers. Before him stood a petite woman dressed in a Nun’s habit.

She spoke directly to the doctor; her French was flawless, her pronunciation perfect. Hanley had to remind himself that she was an American. The doctor appeared to nod and agree with the Sister.

“Bon soir,” he said as he turned toward the exit door. “I leave you with this capable Sister.” He lumbered into the hall and headed up the stairs. They could hear him huffing as his heavy steps echoed his retreat.

Hanley rose to his feet and crooked his finger to Kirby to do the same. Caje and Marie joined them in a corner of the room.

“Is anyone else here, Caje?” Hanley kept his voice a whisper.

“There were two pilots, Lieutenant,” Caje answered. “They left last night. In the week I have been here maybe 12 airmen came through. We managed to get nine to safety.”

“And the others?”

Caje nodded to Marie who continued the story. “In each case, Dr. Michelin arranged for the escort. And in each case, he provided a plausible explanation. The patient was moved too soon, or the Germans caught up with them.” Marie shook her head slowly, and then spoke again. “The only other factor remains the Monsignor…only he and I know the escape routes.”

“More than one?”

“Yes. The Monsignor thought it would be safer to have several ways out of this place.”

“And you trust him implicitly?” Hanley had a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“Let me just say, he’s never given me reason not to trust him.”

“Does he go along with each group? For that matter, does Dr. Michelin?” Hanley thought about the shuffling overweight doctor, wondering how far he’d go before missing his next regular meal.

“Frère Philippe, here, brings the airmen to a safe church the Monsignor chooses. The Maquis take over from there.”

“And the doctor?”

“He accompanies the officers,” Caje explained. “Monsignor rarely goes along.”

“We will have to send you out at different times, Lieutenant,” she said. “Airman Kirby will go first. It is more difficult to get an officer through the lines.”

“Kirby, we’ll have to split up,” Hanley said. “Marie, will you set this in motion?”

Inside the ancient church in Rouen, the Monsignor busied himself at the altar, turning his head when he heard the heavy door open. Michelin escorted his traveling companion toward the front of the church. As the cleric looked at the airman, he was startled to recognize him.

“I don’t understand,” was all he had time to say. James Milford skillfully threw a knife, cutting down the Monsignor who slumped to the floor.

“Why?” Michelin hissed.

“I took a chance coming this way again,” Milford explained. “A small price to pay, don’t you think?” Milford strode over to the fallen priest, retrieved his knife, and wiped it on the dead man’s vestments. Satisfied the blood was removed, he put the knife back in its place. “We’ve stopped one escape route; now we start again.”

A hundred kilometers and a day later, Dr. Michelin stood before the wounded Kirby.

“It is time for us to go, Airman.” Kirby took a small pack from the doctor’s outstretched hand. “There is food here for two days. That should see you to safety.”

Kirby pulled the bag tightly to himself, wearily eyeing the large doctor. I hope so, he thought to himself.

Kirby and Frère Philippe shared a glance before the priest led his friend out of the church.

The last thing Hanley said to Kirby was a softly muttered “good luck.”

Now, watching his irreverent Private and Frère Philippe walk down the street, the lumbering doctor leading the way, Hanley wondered if he’d made the right decision. He didn’t trust the doctor, or the Monsignor for that matter. Marie convinced him it was safer for Kirby to go with “Frère Philippe” and he’d go with the Monsignor.

Caje was doing his job well. The Monsignor seemed to trust him and the Cajun showed no indication he wasn’t the real thing. Hanley settled in his too-small cot and tried to sleep.

Funny, the things you hear when there’s nothing to hear, Hanley thought. He tried to keep his eyes closed, willing sleep to come. He heard a slight scratching sound and he sat upright—not an easy task for a big man with a bandaged leg. He strained his ears—nothing but the beating of his own heart. Now that Kirby was gone, he was alone in the basement of the church. No chance of sleeping now he said to himself.

All he wanted to do was stretch his long legs. He knew there was a risk of being caught outside the church, but as long as he stayed indoors, he reasoned, he’d be fine. He moved his tall frame silently up the stone stairway toward the main floor of the church.

Kirby’s only been gone for an hour so it can’t be even 2 o’clock, he thought to himself. It’s my fault if something…someone’s outside…two someones—Caje? He peered through a small open window. What the? He could see the doctor, but not his companion.

“You will be safe enough here, Captain,” the doctor said as he led the stranger into the church.

Hanley played possum when the men came into the hiding room.

“Over here, Captain.” Michelin motioned to an empty cot in the corner. “You and that gentleman over there will be leaving tomorrow night.”

Michelin walked out the door and began his slow climb to the top of the stairs.

Hanley considered greeting the newcomer, but decided against it. Morning would be soon enough, he reasoned. He stifled a yawn and settled in for the night.

Marie quietly entered the dark room a few minutes before the approaching dawn. She found Hanley awake and ready to go. She gave him a small hamper of food.

“Any word on Kirby?” Hanley whispered, as he eagerly took a bite of bread.

“He should be safe by now,” she answered. “You leave once it is dark again. The doctor has made the arrangements.”

“Where is Frère Philippe?” Marie glanced around the room.

“He’s not back yet,” Hanley answered, as he savored some cheese. He became alarmed at her worried expression.

“Not good—he should have been back by midnight.”

“We have someone new in the fold,” Hanley told her. He tilted his head toward the corner. “Came in last night with the doctor.”

“Name is Jamie Milford,” the stranger said softly. “Shot down a few days ago.”

“Where’re you from?” Hanley asked as he rose to his feet. Hanley stretched out a hand and said, “Hanley.”

“RAF out of Cambridgeshire, and I’m certainly looking forward to getting back home.”

Hanley raised an eyebrow, but said nothing aloud. He was no linguistics expert, but Milford’s accent seemed a little forced to him. Marie promised to return at dusk, turned and left the room.

As the sun was setting, Marie, still dressed as a Nun, opened the door and beckoned the men to follow her. “We must hurry. We have to be in Rouen by dawn.”

She extended her hand and gave Hanley a knife. “This is all we have for now, and you might need it.”

Hanley grabbed the knife, tucked it into his waistband and followed her out into the early evening light. “Let’s go, Milford,” he said. Marie picked up her pace and darted in and out of the shadows, the men close behind. They walked for what seemed like hours. Hanley was really getting tired of the leg bandages.

“There,” she whispered as she pointed to a church near the edge of town. “The Monsignor will meet you inside.”

She quickly opened the door and stepped inside. She was totally unprepared for what she saw. A priest was slumped on the floor in a pool of blood.

Hanley stepped into the room, saw the priest, knelt and gently turned him over. “The Monsignor,” he said, visibly relieved it wasn’t Caje. The thought hit him, where is Caje?

“Look’s like he’s been dead a while,” Hanley said.

“Come, we have to get you both hidden,” Marie insisted.

She stepped behind the altar and reached for the knob of a massive door. She held the door open with her small frame.

“Go down this way,” she said as she raised a small lantern. “I will contact the Maquis and get back to you. Be careful.” She handed Hanley the lantern and shut the door on her way out.

The lantern provided only a small shaft of light. As they made their way through twists and turns Hanley vaguely wondered if he’d ever see daylight again. He also wondered if the Germans knew about this hideaway. He instinctively reached for the knife in his waistband and worried that it wouldn’t offer much protection. Down the stone steps they crept, down, and down, until they came to what seemed to be a cellar.

The men stepped into a large dimly lit room. A small torch affixed to one wall provided just enough light to make out their surroundings. In the corner Hanley was relieved to see Kirby’s pack, realizing the soldier had made it this far and was probably on his way to “freedom.” From the shadows stepped a priest. Hanley was relieved to see Frère Philippe. Milford, clearly, was not. As Hanley took a step forward, he was stopped in his tracks by a blow to the back of his head.

Almost immediately, Jamie Milford threw his knife at Frère Philippe, striking the priest in his left side, knocking him off his feet. Caje’s first thought was, I’m not dead. His second thought was, better not move or I will be.

Milford quickly turned away from the priest and rushed up the stairs, cursing under his breath that the priest recognized him.

Billy Nelson grabbed his gear and trotted out of their temporary home, close on Private Jim Tanner’s heels. Littlejohn, Doc and Saunders were already headed out of the village.

“Come on, guys. What’s the rush?” he asked as he caught up.

Saunders briefly explained the assignment, ending with, “We have to get to Rouen by nightfall.” No further explanation was needed.

“Tanner, take the point.”

Saunders and the squad were tired of crawling in and out of hedges and darting among stands of trees. He called for his men to take a break. This particular corner of France was proving very difficult for anything but fighting between small groups. Saunders breathed a sigh of relief hoping they could evade Germans in any size group.

“Sarge, are we almost there?” Billy Nelson whispered. Saunders was examining his map when Nelson approached him.

“Almost,” Saunders answered.

“Is that where the Lieutenant is? And Kirby and Caje?”

“You’re just full of questions today, aren’t you,” Saunders said. “We’ll be there when we get there.” Saunders was just as concerned about Hanley, Caje and Kirby.

“Saddle up,” he said, his voice edgy.

The weary squad members struggled to their feet. Littlejohn grabbed the radio, as was his custom. Billy trotted to the front in place of their usual scout. Saunders and Doc brought up the rear. The men covered the remaining kilometers quickly.

Suddenly in the darkness the young soldier spotted three people just feet away. He quickly raised an arm and brought it to his side, efficiently signaling the group to drop down. The diminutive soldier and the limping old woman stopped. The old peasant man carefully stepped into the small clearing.

“Ham,” the old man said, his voice just above a whisper.

Saunders trained his Thompson on the old man. “Eggs,” the sergeant replied.

“Am I glad to see you guys,” Kirby called out, and stumbled into Littlejohn’s arms.

“Where’s Hanley?” Saunders asked.

“He and Caje are under some church back there, with some sort of cats or somethin’,” Kirby answered.

“Under a church?” Saunders always suspected Kirby of being slightly cracked, but this was too far-gone, even for Kirby.

The old woman caught his attention.

“They are safely hidden in the catacombs beneath the sanctuary, Sergeant.” Saunders watched as she pulled off the billowing skirts, revealing a trim figure dressed in slacks. “We must get to them before dawn.”

It didn’t take long for them to reach the outskirts of town. Billy suddenly flashed a signal to get down. Saunders crept slowly to his side.

“There’s the church, Sergeant,” the woman explained. “It has a passageway down to the catacombs. I must leave to meet the Maquis.”

“I’ll check it out. Tanner, let’s go. Billy, cover us.”

Private Tanner surveyed the terrain and followed Saunders, both men creeping slowly and low to the ground. At the door to the church, Saunders glanced over his shoulder and motioned Tanner to go around back. Carefully opening the door, he peered inside.

Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, the sergeant stepped out of the shadows and waved the squad in.

“Clear the back, Billy.” His Thompson ready, the squad leader sat down on his haunches and watched Tanner light a cigarette. As he drew a long drag the rest of the squad gathered beside him.

“Now what, Sarge?” Tanner asked, his cigarette dangling from his lips.

“We find Lieutenant Hanley…and hope Caje is with him.”

Deep beneath the church’s altar were catacombs, subterranean burial chambers used during the Roman Empire. In the near darkness, Hanley slowly regained consciousness. What the…? He surveyed his surroundings, trying to make sense of what happened. It occurred to him that he was alone, and he worried about Caje and Milford.

Hanley knew very little about catacombs although history was his passion. He did know that Paris had an extensive network of them, but catacombs this far from the ancient city came as a surprise to him. He’d only seen a few pictures and was now fascinated to see how accurate they were. He flicked open his lighter and strained to see in the semi-darkness. He was sickened to see a wall made of human skulls. He hoped someone friendly would find him before these catacombs found a modern use.

The officer reached for his pack of smokes, hesitated, then lit a cigarette. We’re under a church, not inside one, so I’ll smoke if I want to, he reasoned. Besides, anything to pass the time and calm the nerves was welcome. His whole body ached, first the sheer exhaustion of being on the run for days; second, the blow to his head took a toll. His thoughts jumbled around his brain as he slumped against the cold stone of the wall.

Sleep…I’d give my right arm for some sleep. No…need to stay alert in case they come. Can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. Probably right before I left for basic. The burning cigarette singed his fingers, suddenly getting his attention. Yeow! He instinctively thrust his finger into his mouth to quell the sting. That’ll teach you to stay focused, he scolded himself. He struggled to stay awake, but finally fell into a light asleep.

He sensed trouble before he actually heard it; the hairs on the back of his neck jumped to attention. He heard footsteps coming into the cavernous room.

As the steps drew closer, Hanley knew he had to make his move. He reached for the knife he still carried in his belt. In one motion he grabbed it and plunged it into nothing at all. A strong hand grabbed his right wrist and would not let go.

“No you don’t,” he heard a familiar voice say. “Take it easy, Lieutenant.” Caje released the grip on Hanley’s hand. “Here,” he said as knelt down. “Let’s get you out of those leg bandages.”

As Caje leaned in, Hanley realized he’d shed the clerical garb and was back in uniform, blood clearly dried on his shirt. “You hit?”

“It’s nothing,” Caje insisted. “Our friend, Milford thought he’d killed me, but his knife caught in the folds of my Cossack and barely scratched me.

Marie Monin stood at the open the door. “We have visitors in the church, gentlemen. I suggest we leave now.”

“Where’s Milford?” Hanley asked.

“Dead, Lieutenant,” Marie answered. “Thanks to your Private here.”

The three started up the stone steps, single file. A rush of activity greeted them in the sanctuary. As they stepped out from behind the altar, Hanley heard the familiar voices of Saunders and Kirby. He smiled when he saw the men under his command.

“Well, there you are, Lieutenant,” Saunders said. “Leave you alone for a couple of days and look what happens.” Hanley smiled broadly and forgave the mocking.

“Let me take a look at you,” Doc offered.

“I’m fine; check on Caje,” Hanley insisted.

“Nothing there but a scratch,” Doc said. “You, on the other hand, prob’bly have a concussion.”

“Somebody please fill me in on what happened,” Hanley said, brushing off the Medic.

“Milford, or whoever he was, was a German infiltrator,” Marie explained. “He traveled the escape routes in various disguises. He made the mistake of running into Frère Philippe more than once.”

“When Michelin first brought him in, he claimed he was a tail gunner,” Caje explained. “He didn’t realize I’d be here when he came through as a downed pilot.

“When I recognized him he tried to kill me,” Caje continued. “He must have thought I was dead. When he ran, I grabbed the knife and followed him.”

Hanley knew the rest of the story; he’d seen Caje wield a knife before.

Marie concluded the story. “The Maquis have Michelin by now. He will no longer be a problem.” She smiled and said, “The Maquis assures me the operation was safe once again.

“We owe you both a debt of gratitude, Lieutenant,” Marie said.

“Both? Both? What about me? Kirby? Remember me?” Kirby butted his way into the conversation, risking Hanley’s ire.

“Of course, Kirby. Thank you as well,” she said warmly. “You were very helpful.”

“That’s right. Here that, Littlejohn? I was helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah, Kirby. You were helpful,” Littlejohn agreed.

“Let’s all be helpful and let Doc do his job,” Saunders said. “Come on.” The men of First Squad started through the door.

“See you at home, Lieutenant,” Saunders called over his shoulder.

Hanley reluctantly gave in to both his sergeant and the medic. With a slight wave of his hand he called, “Thanks, Saunders.”

“I have to leave as well, Lieutenant,” Marie said. “Please thank Captain Jampel for me.” She smiled and added, “and tell him Virginia Hall said goodbye.”

She was gone before Hanley had a chance to ask her what she meant.

“Who was that woman, Lieutenant?” Doc grabbed his bag and headed toward the door.

“I wish I knew, Doc. I wish I knew,” Hanley answered.

“All right, time to leave this little corner of Heaven, Caje,” Hanley said as he turned to leave the church. He took another glance at the altar, smiled, and walked out into the sunshine.

This story is based on historical fact. There really was a Virginia Hall and according to Wikipedia, she used the alias, Marie Monin. I found her story on the National Women’s History Museum website. My story is completely fictional. Read more about Virginia on the internet. She was quite a woman!

http://www.nwhm.org/Education/biography_vhall.html

World War II spy Virginia Hall was born April 6, 1906, in Baltimore, Maryland. As part of her education, she attended schools in France, Germany and Austria. Hall had hoped to pursue a career in Foreign Service, but suffered an unfortunate accident during a hunting trip, which resulted in the loss of her lower leg. Her injury disrupted her plans for a diplomatic career and she resigned from the Department of State in 1939.

She spent 15 months in Vichy helping to coordinate the activities of the French Underground as well as the occupied portions of France. In March 1944, Hall joined the United States Office of Strategic Services (OSS); she asked to be assigned to occupied France. Since she was already experienced in clandestine work behind enemy lines, the OSS promptly granted her request and she landed in Brittany by way of a British PT boat. It must be noted that her artificial leg kept her from parachuting into occupied France. Her code name was "Diane", which she used to elude the German Gestapo; Virginia contacted the French Resistance in central France and mapped drop zones for supplies as well as commandos from England. She found safe houses and linked up with a Jedburgh team (British Special Forces) after the Allied Forces landed at Normandy. Virginia helped train three battalions of Resistance forces in order to wage guerrilla warfare against the Germans and kept up a stream of reporting with the Allies until Allied troops overtook her small band in September.