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Empty Chairs – Full Glasses
The three of them stood in front of their captors, their backs to the old stone
gable of the town’s Gendarmerie Station, strategically placed one-hundred years previously at one corner of the square
to enable any incumbents to view the square’s whole panorama from any one of its several windows. Above the door flew
a standard bearing the Imperial German Eagle; the Tricolour ripped from its pole and trod into the dirt some three weeks before.
Despite
the local German commander’s decree that the whole town turn out to witness the punishment dealt out to anyone caught
sheltering enemy soldiers, only around seventy or so townsfolk gathered to witness the prisoners’ fate. Fortunately
for the rest, only one section of German soldiers, ten men in all, were now left in the small town; not enough to drag the
whole population from their homes.
Women wept, small children cowered close to their parents, but the men stood rigid,
defiance etched on their ashen faces, glaring directly at the Germans. A Feldwebel, now the senior rank in the town, and nine
men; five in the firing squad facing the prisoners, the other four with rifles and bayonets pointing at the crowd. Their orders,
issued verbally fifteen minutes earlier, to execute the prisoners and follow their unit north, before the British arrived.
The old-man, his left arm around the shoulder of a sobbing young woman, his right holding up a youth dressed in a
ragged, blood and mud spattered French infantryman’s uniform, made one last attempt to reason with his captors. His
daughter had played no part, he told them for the umpteenth time, had not known that her brother was sheltering in the cellar.
And he had not sheltered an enemy soldier, he had simply helped his son, and how could a French soldier be an enemy in a French
Town?
The Feldwebel stepped forward, gave a sharp blow with his pistol to old man’s already bruised, swollen
and bloody face then returned to his men. As he raised his arm the firing squad took aim…
…”FIRE”
- BANG, BANG, BANG – “GIVE IT ‘EM!”- “CHARGE!”
The initial volley took down the
Feldwebel and the five men of the firing squad, the other four fell to their knees, dropped their weapons and held their hands
above their heads as four British soldiers raced across the square towards them, bayonets out in front and yelling like banshees.
Screams from the Feldwebel as he writhed on the cobbles, but a quick bayonet thrust from the British Corporal silenced him,
George then yelled orders to his men, “Smudger, Dusty, get the weapons and check those four out for any more. Finchy,
see if any of these others are still alive.”
But even as he spoke, the men and women from the crowd jumped to
their feet and reached the kneeling Germans first, all beaten and throats cut where they knelt before the British troops could
regain control. And then the crowd turned on the British; cheering, patting them on the back and trying to lift them shoulder
high. George had no choice but to fire a round in the air, before yelling out, “STOP! THAT’S ENOUGH!”
The
crowd backed off a few paces in silence. “Bleedin’ hell, George,” Smudger said, “I thought for a minute
they were going to slit our bleedin’ throats an all. Can’t believe what they did to them Jerries?”
“Got
bigger problems than that, Smudge. Are there any more Jerries around, and how do we communicate with these Frogs? But first
- Finchy, get back to the Platoon, tell Mr Robinson that our recce turned a bit sour, tell him what these b*stards were about
to do and that we had no choice. Tell him we’ll try and find out whether any Jerries are left in the town and then we’ll
retire to the crossroads we passed and meet you there. Got it?
“Yes, Corp, see ya.”
As George issued
his orders, the old-man, arms still around his daughter and son, called out, “Merci, Merci, Merci.”
Dusty
spoke first, “Bloody hell, George, he’s begging for mercy - the poor old sod thinks we’re gonna shoot him.
Don’t worry, T’owd lad, we’re not gonna hurt ya.”
“Don’t be bleedin’ daft,”
said Smudger, “Mercy’s their word for thanks, don’t you ever listen to any bleedin’ briefings?”
The
young woman, pulling herself away from her father’s protective arm, interrupted, “That is true, Monsieur, he is
thanking you for saving our lives.”
“Thank Christ,” said George, “You speak English?”
“Oui,
Monsieur, I was friends with the daughter of an English artist who lived here for many years, and we still communicate by
letter.”
“Bout time our bleedin’ luck changed.”
“Smudger, button it. Thanks, Miss,
my name is George, what’s yours?”
“My name is Yvette, Monsieur.”
“Well, Yvette,
we need to know where the Jerries are and how many, do you know?”
“Jerrees? I do not understand, Monsieur.”
“Er
sorry – the Boche?”
“Ah, now I understand, Monsieur. They left a short while ago in a hurry, these
few were to shoot us then follow.”
“Shoot you for what?”
“My brother was separated from
his unit when the Boche came so we hid him, but the Boche found him this morning and said we all had to be executed.”
“Bastards,”
hissed George, “Er sorry, Miss, sorry for the language.”
Yvette blushed, “No need to say sorry, Monsieur,
you saved our lives.”
“That may be so, Miss, but there’s no excuse for bad language in front of ladies.
Now, Yvette, I’d like you to tell all these people to quickly go home, there are only three of us and no telling what
the Jerries’ll do until the rest of us arrive.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” Yvette turned to the crowd,
relaying George’s message. They quickly dispersed except for Yvette, her father and brother.
“You and your
family as well, Miss, we’re moving back out of the town to meet up with the rest of our lads.”
“My
brother is wounded in the leg, Monsieur, he cannot walk and my father is too old to carry him, we will stay here for a while.”
“Can’t
have that, Miss – Smudger, Dusty, pick up the Frog in the uniform and follow me.”
“Which way, Miss?”
“Thank
you, Monsieur, it is not far. My father is the proprietor of an estaminet, a small café and bar, the best in the town, and
he will want to thank you with plenty of free alcohol.”
“Have to say thanks but no thanks to that, Miss.
Once we get you safely home we’ve got to get straight off and meet-up with our lads. But if you promise me that you’ll
never tell a soul that a bunch of Koylis turned down a free drink, then I promise that if we can, we’ll visit your pub
and let your father ply us with as much free drink as he bloody-well wants.”
****
All four tried get
through the door at once, eager to taste alcohol. After a bit of a friendly struggle they managed to end up inside.
“Shite,
the place is full,” exclaimed the tall, sallow lance-corporal clothed in British uniform, “it’s already
full of bloody squadies.”
“Let’s find another,” said one of his mates, the other two nodded
assent.
“No chance,” said the lance-jack, “the Jerries have packed it in and we’re gonna get
pissed right here. Hey look, lads, there’s an empty table, let’s grab it quick.”
All four made for
the table in the bay window, four empty chairs but four full glasses of beer on the table. “Must be taken?” said
the lance-jack when spotting the beer, “but sod ‘em, we’ll argue about it if they come back. Sit down, lads,
and I’ll order the drinks.”
As their backsides touched the seats, a scuffling sound headed towards them
from the direction of the bar, then shouting, “ALLEZ, VITE - ALLEZ, VITE – ALLEZ…” An old-man thrust
out of the throng of soldiers, his face reddened with anger and shotgun in hand pointing at the four soldiers who had dared
to sit at this table, “ALLEZ, VITE,” he yelled.
A young woman, with a young boy holding on to her skirt,
quickly came around the old-man and stood between him and the soldiers, remonstrating with him.
“What the bloody-hell’s
going on?” Yelled the lance-jack as all four jumped to their feet.
An old sergeant, sitting at a nearby table,
offered advice, “Better move from that table, lads, or you’ll get an arseful of lead-shot. It’s reserved.”
“Bloody
reserved? What do you mean, Sarge?”
“It’s reserved for four Koylis, and only those four, no one else
can use it.”
“What? The Koylis are coming here tonight?”
“Not tonight, lad, nor any
other night.”
“You’ve lost me, Sarge. Our first night in a new town, we hear the war’s over
and we simply want to get pissed and then we get all this bollocks? I don’t get it, Sarge?”
“I thought
you were new in town,” replied the sergeant, “You see, lads, this place and that table are legend in these parts.
Back in nineteen-fourteen, when our lot were heading back North after the Marne, there was a little skirmish in this town.
Apparently, the old-man, his daughter there, and his son, the cripple over there behind the bar, were saved from being killed
by the Jerries by four Koylis…”
“What, and the stupid old-sod’s reserved ‘em a table
for four bloody years?”
“Let me finish, lad, let me finish. It appears that the Koylis stayed here for
a bit, and them four became regulars here. The tale is, that the old-man caught one of ‘em giving one to the pretty
Yvette there, but was so chuffed with ‘im for saving his family he didn’t take the shotgun to ‘im. But,
so the tale goes, the Koyli was smitten with her anyway, and they married in just over week. It seems that the young sprog
at her skirt is half bloody Koyli.”
“So where the bloody-hell are they now?”
“Up at
Wipers, lad. All four killed up there the first time around. And ever since that day, that table has been set every morning
just as it is now, and no one is allowed to sit at it. Every morning, the old-man pours four beers, leaves them sitting there
till the next morning, then drinks each one in turn himself, and after each one says, Vive Jeorge, Vive Smudgair, Vive Dustee,
Vive Finchee, then steps back and says, Vive L’Anglais, before clearing the dirty glasses and filling four clean ones.
Same thing every day for four years. Funny buggers these Frogs you know, lad.”
“Come on, lads, let’s
get pissed at the bar. Funny buggers these Frogs.”
© John Sales 2009.
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