In the Moon

by Alan Holmes

  One cloudy, cool day in Condette, I was being a chef and caterer for a dinner party that Brenda was throwing for her assorted dolls and teddy bears. I had originally set out to make a chocolate cake for Brenda’s guests. I was kneading the dough—or, more correctly, rolling a rough blob of moistened soil back and forth between my two hands, when I found that it gradually hardened and eventually acquired the shape of a smooth and perfect sphere.

  It was while contemplating the various possible gastronomic interpretations for this boulette, which didn’t so much resemble a cake as it did a chocolaty brown snowball, when it struck me that the boulette was in fact a superb projectile. I put it to the test against our garage door, where it left a thoroughly satisfying dark brown mess as it splattered on the hard surface. Real snowballs weren’t as messy, of course, but the mess from a boulette was easily hosed off.

  Before long, I perfected my technique for boulette-making into a fine art. The trick lay in adding just the right amount of water to the soil. With too little water, a boulette crumbled in my hands as I threw it; with too much water, it didn’t harden, and I had myself a mess so slimy I could barely throw it. The soil for boulettes could be found anywhere in Condette, but I obtained it from a “quarry” of my own in a remote corner of the garden where unsightly digging would not incur the wrath of either Raimond or Father.

  I demonstrated my perfected mud ball making technique to the Tourneau boys, who soon joined me in the pastime. It was thoroughly satisfying to have these neat spheres appear out of a formless blob of mud, and we soon had quite a pile of them. We then directed our attention to the garage door, which eventually became totally brown. When we could no longer distinguish new impact sites on the garage door from old ones, we turned to throwing the boulettes at each other, and it wasn’t long before we decided we needed forts to which we could repair and take shelter as we manufactured a new pile of ammunition. Thus was born the game of la guerre aux boulettes (the mud ball war).

  The Tourneau boys and I built two forts from old boards which Raimond had been saving for some as yet unspecified project. First, we dug a short, shallow trench in the ground. While one of us held a row of boards upright in the trench, we filled the trench with soil, building it up around the base of the boards to form a low, running mound from which the wood planks protruded. The upright row of boards was more or less resistant to being knocked over by an incoming boulette and constituted the defensive wall of our fort. The next step in the evolution of this game was finding ways to make the forts more durable. We tried different arrangements of the boards, sloping or angling them and tying them together with bits of string.

  As in any war, the weaponry also evolved. I invented more sophisticated boulettes, special-purpose ones that deserved distinguishing names. I made plum-sized balls that I called “piquantes” (“stingers”) because I could throw them fast enough so that a human target would get a mild sting from the hit. In addition, there were the pilardes for which I also invented the name (probably from piler, to pile on). Pilardes were huge and heavy, about the size of a grapefruit, weighing well over a pound, hard to throw and slow, but perfect for toppling an enemy fort if the pilarde’s great mass could be made to fly that far. The game eventually evolved into seeing who would be first to knock down an opponent’s fort by the shear number of well-placed hits. The key factors in winning a mud ball war were ingenious fort design, a good aim, quality boulette production and the ability to produce them at a high rate while under enemy fire. Raimond watched the progress and development of this game with relish.

  Unfortunately, our respective mothers didn’t share Raimond’s enthusiasm and took a dim view of all this. After our first full battle, the mothers issued a Joint Communiqué, that of August 30, 1939. It formally decreed that all guerres aux boulettes were henceforth outlawed. Upon being asked why they were issuing such a harsh edict, the mothers unanimously maintained that no amount of laundering could restore our clothes to some semblance of cleanliness after a major battle.

  The Tourneau boys were extremely disheartened by the Communiqué, but I wasn’t ready to give up so easily. Undaunted, I pleaded our case, first with Mother, then with Madame Tourneau: if our clothes were already so permanently soiled, then surely there would be no further damage done if we soiled the same clothes once more in battle. Since every participant already owned a set of clothes that permanently lacked “some semblance of cleanliness,” why couldn’t we play the game if we all wore those very same clothes on the prearranged day of battle?

  Raimond, a non-participating supporter of this game and an enthusiastic spectator, lobbied on my behalf. “Après tout, Madame, Monsieur Alain a raison!” (“After all, Ma’am, Mr. Alain is right!”) Mother, and eventually Madame Tourneau, capitulated and jointly agreed to the countermanding Decree of August 31, 1939. In France, reason—cold logical reason—usually wins the day.

  One dull, dreary and gray Sunday morning, not improved by an earlier trip to church for mass, I found myself badly in need of something to lift my spirits. I meandered over to the Tourneaus’ house to see if I could set up a guerre aux boulettes. Monsieur and Madame Tourneau were off playing a round of golf. In spite of the fact that their parents weren’t there—the Tourneau boys had never done much without first obtaining parental approval—Jacques couldn’t see any reason why we shouldn’t play the game. After all, the original Mother’s Communiqué had been countermanded in the presence of all concerned, and we knew the precise terms of the most recent decree. So the five of us went off to our respective rooms to don our earth-stained battle regalia.

  I teamed up with Pierre, and Jacques headed up the opposing camp that included Brenda and Miquet. Brenda, who only occasionally joined in our boys’ games, was on Jacque’s team because Miquet was only proficient at making the small piquantes. Brenda was very good at making the moyennes boulettes (standard, medium-size boulettes) and would add balance to the distribution of skilled personnel. Jacques, so much bigger than any of us, had a powerful throw that no one else could come close to matching. Pierre was moderately effective at throwing pilardes, but I was not. On the other hand, I had a reputation as a sharp-shooter with the piquantes. The strengths of the two sides thus seemed fairly well balanced.

  Both camps considered themselves invincible and waged a propaganda war of words as we set about building our respective forts, which stood facing each other a little more than twenty feet apart. The span of this no-man’s-land between the forts was chosen because it was slightly less than the distance that Pierre, our “pilarde cannon,” could successfully lob one of those massive missiles. The established articles of war stated that no side could start manufacturing boulettes until the forts were built and war had been officially declared. When the forts were completed and both camps had their supplies of soil and water ready, Raimond blew my scout whistle, signifying that war was officially declared.

  Kneeling behind our fort, I worked furiously manufacturing pilardes, while Pierre lobbed the projectiles as fast as I could make them. Occasionally, I made a few piquantes, which I aimed right at Jacques, spoiling his aim and disrupting a steady barrage of his heavy pilardes that were inflicting heavy damage to our fort.

  At one point, one of Pierre’s pilardes actually fractured one of the main boards of their fort, leaving an open gap in their fortifications. This meant that Brenda and Miquet, kneeling behind their fortifications, were now being subjected to occasional hits from my piquantes and splatter from the huge pilardes. Nevertheless, they struggled on, maintaining full-tilt boulette production inside their damaged fort.

  Jacques had an excellent aim and, on almost every throw, kept hitting the same board on our fort. Finally it started to lean, and since we were not allowed to make repairs to the fort during battle, Pierre and I were now also vulnerable. Counterbalancing this setback, my boulettes were definitely of higher quality, bigger and harder, and therefore more devastating. Since neither
Brenda nor Miquet could make a decent pilarde, Jacques occasionally had to cease his merciless lobbing to make a few good pilardes himself, during which time Pierre and I continued to pummel his fort mercilessly. As Pierre did so, Miquet peppered him with piquantes every time he stood up to throw a projectile.

  Every now and then, one of the boulette fabricators had to make a run with a pail to the garden tap for more water. With another pail, we also had to run to the “quarry” for more soil. Each time, the runners were exposed to hits from piquantes. It was a lively, heart-pounding game accompanied by wild shouts of triumph at a well-aimed throw and yelps of protest and outrage when the enemy scored a direct hit.

  This heroic and raging battle was still in full swing, and we were all well battle-scarred with chocolate-colored soil, when Mother made an unexpected appearance on the scene. She advanced into no-man’s-land where she was in the line of fire between the two camps, causing an immediate ceasefire. All of us stood up and peered over our battered fortifications, wondering if Mother had lost her mind.

  After a moment of silence, she intoned in a solemn voice, “La guerre a été declarée!” (“War has been declared!”)

  “I know,” I said, holding back the temptation to laugh. “It’s been going on for some time now. If you move out of the line of fire, it can continue, and you can enjoy watching the fight to the finish!”

  “No, not your little play war. I’m saying I have just heard on the radio that we have declared real war on Germany because the Germans are refusing to pull back from their invasion of Poland,” she replied, still in a somber tone.

  We stood in stunned silence for a long moment. Finally, Pierre dropped the boulette he was working on. After more silence, Jacques dropped the pilarde he had been about to throw. Dumbstruck, we continued standing where we were.

  “Why don’t we just continue our own little war?” I eventually proposed, trying desperately to recapture the wild, carefree spirit that had prevailed. But Jacques turned and started to walk towards their house. Pierre looked at me briefly and silently followed his brother. Miquet, who was still holding a piquante, threw it at me and dashed off to catch up with his two brothers.

  I looked at Raimond, who had been standing on the sidelines and whose face had turned ashen. “I will be conscripted,” he said grimly and walked away.

  The threat of war with Germany had rumbled across Europe for years, like distant thunder on a hot, humid summer day and, as in such weather, there had been an uneasy tension. Until now, we had been watching lightning flashes in the distance. Although it hadn’t reached us yet, the storm was clearly upon us now; there was no longer any use pretending it wasn’t.

  In denial, I had tried to revive our game, but even at nine years of age, I was acutely aware the news was grave. I had repeatedly heard grown-ups talking about the possibility of war. And I had heard all about the Germans. Father had fought with the British Army in World War I, twenty years before. Mother had spent four terrible years under the German occupation in Belgium. From her, I had heard numerous stories of horror and atrocities committed by les sales Boches (the dirty Huns). She never referred to the Germans any other way. Father hardly ever talked about his war experiences, but what little he said suggested worse than Mother’s descriptions. Raimond had also told me stories of that war, though being too young by one year, he had missed conscription into the army. His brother and many of his friends had been killed in the war. At the Dennis School, we had read sad, poignant poems written by men in the trenches. Current newspaper and magazine articles frequently focused on the last war and on preparations for another.

  In a distracted way, I watched the three Tourneau boys disappearing through a hole in the hedge that separated our gardens. I stood beside our muddied fort, trying to imagine what war would mean to us until Mother broke my dreadful reverie by saying, “Vas te laver,” ordering me to wash up. I wondered why, of all things, she wanted me to do that. There was at least an hour before lunch. Mysteriously, I foolishly felt that I could savor a few more precious minutes of the fun I had been having if I rebuilt my fort, and I started to do so, ignoring her instructions.

  Seeing what I was up to, Mother became angry and, in a stern voice, told me to do as I had been ordered. Why was she so angry with me? I wasn’t the one who had invaded Poland.

  I went up to my room and, as I started to undress, I looked out the window and noticed how dark and menacing the sky had become. Like the sky, the news facing us overwhelmed me. I suddenly felt cold and started to shiver all over. Later, during lunch, we tried to eat but none of us was hungry and we said nothing.

  In the confusing days that followed the declaration of war, the news reached Mother that Mr. Derosier had decided to return to the United States; the American School of Paris would not reopen that autumn. Shortly thereafter, Father reasoned that Paris was likely to be bombed and that we would be safer if we remained at our summer house in Condette.

  From here, on the north coast of France—not far from the battlefields of World War I—we could readily board a ship to England if fighting similar to that of World War I developed. However, the Maginot line, which bordered France’s entire boundary with Germany, was heavily fortified and vaunted as impregnable, so that eventuality seemed unlikely.

  Searching for a school, Mother learned that a girl’s school run by the Convent of the Sacred Heart in the city of Lille (closer to the German border) was relocating to an abandoned château right in Condette. To pay for the expenses of the move, the nuns were welcoming new students of either sex. Father wasn’t at all keen on my attending a girls’ school, but there wasn’t any choice, other than the village communal school. Madame Tourneau had also decided that their family should remain in Condette, so the three boys would also attend the convent.

  School was not starting for another three weeks, so we set about preparing for life under war conditions. Anticipating shortages and the need for transportation without petrol, Mother bought each of us, including herself, a brand new bicycle. I had been riding old clunkers for years, all of them previously owned and dilapidated. Mother had long held that anyone who habitually rode through tide pools didn’t deserve a brand new bike. Now that I had a new one, she made me promise that I would abandon what she called “this bad habit,” something I was very reluctant to do. I balked at the request until she pointed out to me that, with the onset of autumn and cool weather, I wasn’t going to be tempted to race through tide pools much longer.

  The bicycles that she bought might have to last us many years and were not only new but were equipped with everything that was available in the way of accessories. My new bike was a bright metallic red and far too big for me. Mother anticipated that the war might last four years, as had the previous war, and that I would grow into it. Even after Raimond had adjusted the seat and handlebar to their minimum height, I was barely able to reach the pedals.

  My bicycle had a three-speed dérailleur (gear), something rare and exotic in those days, and it also had a porte-paquet, a package carrier for my book satchel. It was equipped with a dynamo and headlamp that I would need in November, when I would be riding home from school after dark.

  In the meantime, I rode my new bike with the light switched on in broad daylight. This made pedaling quite a bit harder, but I viewed the extra effort as a small price to pay for the thrill of knowing that I was actually generating electricity through my own physical effort. I rode with the headlight on during most of my waking hours and long after dusk, when I could better appreciate the results of my hard pedaling. I was in seventh heaven. There were, it seemed, some redeeming aspects to being at war.

  Françoise, who probably dreaded the thought of her culinary skills being constrained, convinced Mother that we should stock up on many items that might become scarce. The larder was soon brimming with all the things the French consider essential: bottles of wine, cured hams and sausages, olive oil,
waxed cheeses, canned delicacies, dried peas, beans, onions and garlic, jars of lard, and bags of sugar and flour. We tried to imagine what might become scarce or unavailable and set about storing what we could, even if we weren’t absolutely sure they would be in short supply.

  To protect these valuable provisions, Françoise placed a veritable minefield of mousetraps across the larder floor. The traps inevitably tripped when someone went into that dimly lit dungeon. All it took was one trap to trip, jump up, and trip another. In short order, most of them went off. As Françoise laboriously reset every trap, she cursed the guilty party, who was always Raimond. He frequently went into the larder on her orders to get something or other. He was at her beck and call all day long and bore the added misfortune of not knowing the exact location of all her traps.

  Our house in Condette was strictly a summer house and would be hard to heat in winter. The day after the war was declared, Father went to Boulogne, the nearest large town, and contracted to have central heating installed. The contractor thought he was crazy because central heating was still almost unheard of in this relatively primitive part of France. There were wood burning fireplaces in the farm houses, but the fancier summer houses were unoccupied in winter and had absolutely no heating.

  Nevertheless, work started immediately because all able-bodied men would soon be conscripted, and getting anything done after that would become nearly impossible. Father explained to us that he had spent the entire four years of the previous war being cold and he wasn’t about to go through that experience again if he could avoid it. Furthermore, he had a backup plan under which he would move his office and part of his staff to Condette if the Germans started to bomb Paris heavily. Every room in the house would then be in use and in need of heating.