The Stolen Years

The first all-American offensive began mid-September. In the first day of fighting, from behind a barrage of guns, they caught the Germans by complete surprise, capturing over thirteen thousand prisoners and four hundred guns.

Gavin was posted as liaison. His months in Germany had allowed him to pick up some of the language and, in addition to his knowledge of French, he quickly became an essential part of Donovan’s team. Translating and resolving misunderstandings, he was fascinated by how different the two cultures were and the essential diplomacy involved. He did not feel it necessary, however, to inform his American counterparts that, although the French acknowledged their moral superbe, they pettily attributed their success to German weakness rather than American efficiency.

When they learned of the Wilson peace proposals, which demanded unconditional surrender, the atmosphere became one of anticipation. Gavin loved the American spirit and was instantly at home with their frank, easygoing style, their courage and matter-of-fact manner. Each time an opportunity arose for him to return to his own sector, an excuse came up and he left it for the next time, certain there would always be another opportunity.

October brought the news they had longed to hear for so many years; the Germans had called for an armistice and desired a peace settlement. On November 11, the guns were finally silenced.

By the time Gavin’s troop reached Rheims, he and the other men were simply living in the present, and joined the frenzied reveling of the battered city, exulting in a riotous explosion of overjoyed relief. Girls flung themselves around the Americans’ necks, champagne corks flew and golden froth gushed over the pavements, bathing them in the sparkling wine. Rheims had opened her cellars and her heart, and the air was alive with joy and excitement. Bottles were shoved into their hands as the liberators drove, victorious, through the streets of the tattered city.

Soon it became impossible to drive and Gavin found himself on the sidewalk, a bottle in one hand and a pretty brunette clinging to him, her mouth avidly seeking his. He had no problem obliging. But when he raised his head and searched the milling crowd, he realized the others had been swept into the throng. The girl was dragging his hand relentlessly, thrilled he spoke French. He took a last look at the swarm then shrugged, realizing it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. He’d meet up with Donovan and the others later, when the excitement died down. Right now the feel of the girl’s body and her pliable lips were tantamount to delirium.

Throwing an arm protectively over her shoulders, he followed her into a side street, where she stopped just long enough to kiss him and press her body closer before pulling him into the shattered remains of a rooming house. His mind went blank as her body melded to his, tasting champagne and the intoxication of victory, the need to plunder all that mattered now.

As he took another swig from the bottle and followed her up the creaking stairway to the second floor, he could already picture her moving below him, barely seeing the shabby room with the paint peeling off the splintered walls as he began pulling off his jacket. Vague thoughts of Greta and Flora gave him a moment’s guilt that dwindled rapidly as the girl shooed a large tabby cat from the bed and twirled invitingly, her eyes twinkling mischievously under a mop of chestnut curls.

She unbuttoned her blouse, the material sliding off her slowly, until at last it fell to the floor. Greta and Flora were forgotten as he watched her nipples harden. He reached for her, hungry for the touch of her skin, the feel of something soft and female, the softness of her body a panacea to the death and destruction of the past months. Her hand reached for him and he pulled her toward the bed as she undressed him eagerly, her fingers running provocatively down his chest, forgetting everything but the overwhelming desire to claim the victor’s prize, to plunge deep within her and obliterate reality.

It was dark when he awoke, but the sound of celebrating continued in the streets below. He glanced at the naked girl breathing softly at his side and realized he didn’t know her name. Nor did he want to. He got up quickly and dressed, anxious to get away, to find the others and get on with his plan to send a cablegram home to his parents. It would have to wait until tomorrow, he realized, pulling on his shirt and glancing through the shattered window at the street below, where a young couple stood kissing in the glow of a remaining street lamp.

He turned and looked at the girl, still fast asleep, wondering if he should leave her money. She might be insulted. On the other hand, perhaps it was expected. In the end, he found an empty jam jar and stuffed some bills and a note inside, that read Thanks for a wonderful night. Please buy something to remember it by. Running down the rickety stairs, he avoided the weary gray-haired concierge who mumbled crossly as she swept the remnants of the previous night from the dingy hall.

As soon as he stepped into the street, he realized the city was still celebrating, drunk with relief. He stared at the crowds and wondered how he was going to find the others. He made his way down the Rue Gambetta, through the bombed buildings and debris, and headed for the Boulingrin, a restaurant he had heard Colonel Donovan say had the best French fries in town.

Arriving at the bistro, he peered through a throng of Allied uniforms and girls in their Sunday best, hanging at their heros’ necks. Determinedly, he made his way slowly but persistently to the counter, where he managed to squeeze into an empty spot. He was immediately handed a glass of champagne. He smiled his thanks to the bartender and turned, hoping to begin a conversation with the two British officers standing next to him.

But before he could speak, someone grabbed his arm. Once she had his attention, a pretty redhead with a provocative smile and ruby lips reached up and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Oy, you’re with me,” an outraged cockney voice exclaimed.

“Non!” the young woman exclaimed with a provocative pout. “Moi, I like Américains.” As she gazed up at Gavin and slipped her arms around his neck, the man’s face reddened angrily.

“Oh ye do, do ye? Let’s see how ye like this.” Gavin tried to disengage himself from the girl’s grasp, but the more he tried the more tightly she clung. As the full force of the man’s fist crashed into the right side of his face, Gavin reeled back, flying against the counter with the girl squealing on top of him. He picked himself up painfully, his right eye closing fast. Through the other he saw four marines rising, balling their fists, while two British Tommy’s prepared to back their mate. Then all hell broke loose.

One marine swung at the officer beside him, and after that it was mayhem. Chairs flew, bottles crashed, girls screamed and waiters yelled. The last thing he saw before being knocked out cold was the barman, swearing rapidly and smashing an empty champagne bottle over the head of a drunk marine.

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