Kid Comes Back

by John R. Tunis

  “Tough-looking hombres, hey?” Earl, across the table, raised his eyebrows.

  “Boy, you said it!” replied Roy.

  Now the bandits were surrounding them, drinking toasts, clinking glasses, patting each one on the shoulder, shaking their hands, examining their clothing, admiring their 45’s with cries of interest.

  Roy looked at them closely, like people from the moon. A few hours ago we ate dinner in the mess at Casamozza; here we are in the heart of France, in occupied territory, with Germans all around and these roughnecks our only hope of escape.

  “Sure glad they’re on our side.”

  “Me, too,” said Earl soberly.

  Roy sipped the wine which was red, thick and extremely sour, regarding the circle with somewhat the same curiosity as that with which they regarded him. The bandits wore all sorts of strange costumes, none alike. Some had on furry coats, quite evidently made by the wearer from the skins of trapped animals; others, business suits, torn and shabby, with dirty shirts open at the neck and much the worse for continued wear; or odd bits of foreign uniforms, here a green German blouse, there a pair of khaki breeches, or English shorts topped by a blue French army jacket. Some wore stiff leather puttees round their legs; a few had wrapped strips of cloth between their shoe tops and their knees. Their footwear was even more astonishing; high boots that laced up the calf, sneakers, queer slippers of cloth with rope soles. A few even had on shoes made of abandoned tires, fastened together with pieces of string, that they had obviously fashioned themselves. Their appearance as a group was worse because most of them had not seen a razor recently—if at all. Every imaginable sort of beard, from a soft, silky down to a long, stiffish gray one, was visible.

  A tough-looking bunch of hombres, as Earl remarked. Well, we don’t look any too handsome ourselves right now. Roy glanced at Earl’s forehead bandaged with a dingy white handkerchief, at Jim’s torn uniform, at his own soiled coveralls, the trousers cut above the knee where they had scraped on some piece of jagged metal when he was thrown from the plane. They were all hot, tired, and dirty.

  “How’s the back, kid?” Jim stood over him.

  “It’s not too good, Jim. That farm cart sure gave it a shaking up. Guess I’ll be O.K. though.” He shifted a little in his chair, and the spasm of pain shot up his hip once more, just as it had all through the journey from the airfield where they had crashed.

  “There’s a doc coming. He’ll look at you, and at that head of yours, Earl, too.”

  Then the French leader, the man who had given the orders to destroy their plane, came pushing through the mob around them and spoke to Jim. His tones were those of an officer used to being obeyed, although he wore civilian clothes, with a dingy muffler around his neck and a cloth cap on his head. Of the four Americans, only the pilot could talk French, and it wasn’t easy for him. Yet somehow Jim and the French leader conversed, understanding each other a little, misunderstanding each other more, explaining, talking slowly, using sign language.

  Roy glanced up. A small, thin, black-haired chap was watching Earl light a cigarette. The man had a machine gun crooked in his arm. Earl lighted his cigarette naturally and casually; but there was a strange intentness and fixity in the Frenchman’s gaze. He glared at the full package Earl pulled from his pocket, followed the lighted match as it rose to the bombardier’s mouth, watched the quick way Earl blew out the smoke. Roy seldom smoked himself, but he had a package of cigarettes in his escape kit. He opened it, took out the package, and extended it to the little black-haired man.

  “Me? You give me?” He stood fixed, staring at the package in Roy’s outstretched hand. Suddenly he reached across the table and grabbed it. He leaned over. “For you... perhaps... is naw-theeng, the cigarette. For me, is everytheeng. Fifteen years I work with American company in Paris; smoke American cigarette. Dan, tree, four year... no more American cigarette. Wan year, two year... no cigarette... none.” He waved his hands. The circle of bandits listened with approval; they did not understand his words, but they knew what he was saying. Their tired eyes held the same rapture as his.

  Roy watched. Now what? Will he keep them himself? Or, if cigarettes are as scarce as all that, will he pass them round? Would I pass them round if I loved smoking and hadn’t seen a cigarette for two years? What will he do? This is the Underground; the famous French Underground they’ve told us about so many times in briefing, that we’ve discussed in the mess in Africa and Corsica and Italy, heard stories and yarns about from escaped pilots and others. They’re wonderful; they’re terrible; they’re patriots; they’re communists; they’re generous and noble and cutthroats and murderers. Now let’s see what happens.

  In the smoky light of the ancient inn, the circle round the table watched also, fascinated, while the thin black-haired man with the red-rimmed eyes opened the package of cigarettes, smelled them with a long breath which brought a smile to his weary face, held them up, took one out and twisted it round slowly in his fingers.

  Then he placed the cigarette gently behind his right ear, and handed the package to the next man. He took one, smelled it, and passed the package along. It went round the circle; each man with courtesy and without grabbing took a cigarette from the package, fondled it, and held it with reverent fingers. Finally it was empty. The last man took the empty package, poured the crumbs out carefully, fished a torn piece of toilet paper from his pocket, and with great care rolled a small end for himself.

  Roy looked over at Earl; Earl was looking at him. “Gee,” said the bombardier. “Gee!”

  CHAPTER 5

  THEY WATCHED THE little fellow smoke. Never before had they seen anyone smoke like that. Not as Earl or Scotty or the chaps in the mess at the base smoked, but slowly, reverently, tasting the cigarette, rolling it round in his mouth with those bony fingers, holding in the smoke, then blowing it out and smelling it at the same time, making the whole procedure last as long as possible. They were fascinated. Dimly they began to realize they were in another world, a world where things were upside down. When Earl carelessly stubbed out his butt, there was a moment’s quick silence in the chatter of the group standing above them round the table. Then three bandits leaned over and reached for the butt simultaneously.

  The small black-haired man, who never put down his machine gun, began to talk. He spoke perhaps one word of English to four or five of French, thus making himself almost unintelligible. Roy was unable to understand what he said.

  “Wish I’d known! I had a year of French in school and never once cracked a book. Wish I’d known back home there that it might help save my life some day.”

  “Same here, Roy. I had two years in high school. I can’t remember a word now. What’s the little geezer saying?”

  “Darned if I know.” There they were, the four of them; and all except Jim, who had studied French at college, were unable to understand more than a few words. Dimly Roy began to appreciate something of the meaning of that word he had used so often and heard used so often, usually without ever thinking of its real meaning. Suddenly he realized that the thing called education was not, as he had once imagined, merely a lot of useless exercises to keep youngsters confined in Jefferson High from eight-thirty to three. It meant living things, tools that were to be used later on in life. If you didn’t have them, well, it was too bad for you, that’s all.

  Roy recalled how he spent his time in French, which came the hour before school closed for the clay. He could see the sky outside, and the trees, and could remember sitting there looking at the clouds through the open window in spring, wondering whether the rain would hold off long enough so they could play the ballgame that afternoon.

  “Hey, Roy, look! Get a load of that. It’s a dame, it’s a girl over there. The one with the gun.” Scotty, ever one with an eye to feminine society, pointed across the room. Sure enough, it was a girl, a dark, rather good-looking girl. She wore a beret, ski pants, an old khaki army blouse, and a revolver on a belt round her waist. Scotty rose and pushed back
his chair.

  “Say, hey there, Jim!” Earl called over to the pilot who was at a table conferring with the French leader and paid no attention. His forehead was wrinkled, he was listening hard, trying to understand the Frenchman, who was speaking slowly. It was plainly something of importance. One could see Jim’s French was none too good, either.

  Meanwhile the little chap with the machine gun, standing at their table, was talking.

  “What’s he saying? D’you get it, Roy?”

  “Sure I get that, it’s his name. Of course, it’s his name.”

  “Me, Marcel... Marcel, me. You?”

  “Me? I’m Earl.”

  “Earl. O.K., Earl, O.K.” He extended his hand.

  “You? Please?”

  “I’m Roy, Roy Tucker.” He grasped the Frenchman’s hand. It was nothing but a piece of bone.

  “O.K., Roy, O.K.” Apparently the term “O.K.” was an important part of his knowledge of English.

  “Long time no speak Eengleesh. Me, Marcel. He, Pierre.” He pointed across to the table where Jim sat with their leader. “He, chief. Twanty tousand franc...” Then he pulled his forefinger across his neck in an expressive and curious gesture.

  “I getcha. That’s the guy who heads up this crowd. And the Germans have a reward for him; twenty thousand francs if he’s caught.” The two Americans glanced over with respect. The man sure had a tough-looking chin.

  Meanwhile, the little fellow beside them, the machine gun still under one arm, had smoked the cigarette until it was almost impossible to hold. He put it out, and took the few remaining crumbs, emptying them into a small sack of tobacco which he extracted from his pocket. Then he began talking. The two Americans tried hard to understand him, while the circle of bandits above leaned over each other’s shoulders to listen, wild-looking in the dim light from the kerosene lamps hanging from the beams overhead. In one corner, Scotty was fingering the revolver of the slender girl in ski pants, holding out his own 45. Quite evidently making time with her, too.

  Marcel continued to talk. He was thin and pale, hardly able, one would have said, to carry a machine gun any distance; but he never relaxed his grip on it. His words were far too difficult for them to understand. They often sounded like the same thing. “Vestern,” he kept saying. Over and over again he repeated himself, waiting for a signal of recognition on their faces. “Vestern... vestern... vestern... compagnie vestern.”

  It was Roy who understood. “Hey there, I getcha, Marcel. You’re trying to say ‘Western Union.’”

  “Oui... oui... oui. Compagnie Vestern, I work there; learn Eengleesh in Paris.”

  “Why, sure, I know. I usta carry messages for them back home in Tomkinsville when I was a kid.”

  Me... bicycle... messages.” He spoke slowly and distinctly. “Get it? Compree?”

  “O.K. O.K.” Marcel’s face lit up. He was in ecstasies of delight that at last they understood he had worked for an American corporation. The bandits standing round the table patted him on the back, admiring his linguistic abilities.

  “How’d you happen to get into this game, Marcel? You... Resistance. How come?”

  “Ah!” A somber look came over his face. “Two, tree year. Me, Jew.”

  “Oh. I see.” There was silence. “Hey, Roy, ask him are there women in the Underground, too.” But Marcel did not need to be asked—he got the question.

  “Many women, oh, yes. Oh, many. Women O.K. in France. Woman making wan hundred kilometers on bicyclette. This woman... here, this woman.”

  “Say! Get it? That kid talking to Scotty rides a hundred kilometers on a bike, toting that gun. How much is a hundred kilometers? Let’s see, times five... divided by eight... that’s nearly sixty miles. Boy!”

  Then the door opened. A cold draught made the lamps flare up violently, and a gust of rain came into the room. A figure in a long cape entered. He carried a black bag underneath his cape. Instantly a dozen voices shouted at him:

  “Docteur. Le docteur. Voila le docteur. Ah, docteur.”

  He shut the door, brushed off the rain from his shoulders, stamped his wet feet, shook hands with the chief and half a dozen others, and slung aside the cape which came down to his toes. He was a little man with eyeglasses and a goatee beard. He wore a stiff, celluloid collar. The effect was to make him rather ridiculous. But Marcel was impressed. Evidently the doctor was something in the Underground.

  “Good. Ver’ good docteur. He come twenty kilometers by bicyclette.”

  Twenty kilometers! Holy smoke; how far is that? Twelve miles! Gee, that’s something! Twelve miles on a stinking rainy night like this by bike is something, all right. He looks kinda funny, but he must be a right guy to turn out for us on a night of this sort.

  They watched as he came over, shook hands with them all, and then went to work on Earl immediately. He was thin and pale like the rest, but his fingers betrayed his skill, and he worked with competency and dispatch. There was a gash over the bombardier’s right eye, and a swollen lump on his forehead. The doctor said little; he was the only non-talkative Frenchman they had met. With care and attention he looked the wound over in the light of a smoky lamp held for him by one of the bandits, and then said something with a tone of approval. Reaching into his bag, he produced a tiny bottle of iodine which he swabbed into the wound, making Earl wince. After that he pasted a strip of plaster over it, and applied some salve to the bump above it. Next he took up the dirty bandage, refolded it and, to the horror of the watching Americans, bound up the wound with it again.

  He saw their glances and understood. His shoulders went up, his head tossed to one side, and he spoke. They got his meaning although the words were entirely foreign to them. He was saying that there were no bandages, no cloth left in all France.

  Then the doctor motioned to Roy to climb upon the table. As he rose in his chair, that sudden shooting pain came up his hip once more. Stiffly he removed his muddy coveralls, and aided by the doctor climbed upon the table, lying face down. The doctor, without ceremony, yanked off his trousers, thrust his shirt up around his neck, and began running thin, cold fingers down his spine. At last he said something in rapid, staccato French to Jim, who now stood beside Roy.

  “He wants you to tell him when it hurts you, Roy.”

  “I’ll holler all right. It sure hurt me to stand up just now.”

  Those icy fingertips ranged up and down his back. Along his right hip, his right leg, his right calf, feeling gently at first, then pressing into the flesh, without result. Next the doctor went up the left side of his back, and so down the left hip.

  “Ouch! Ouch! That hurts, plenty.”

  The fingers continued their probing, though more gently. The doctor exclaimed, “Ah... ah... ah!”

  Down the thigh to the left leg, to the left calf. His calf was strangely sore, yet far less painful than his hip. Again the clammy fingers felt round his thigh, gently at first, then pressing in.

  “Oh! There, that’s it... there!”

  This continued for some minutes. Finally he was finished. Roy sat on the edge of the table and yanked clumsily at his trousers, discovering that he was quite unable to bend over.

  Meanwhile Jim, the chief, and the doctor were in a huddle at the far end of the room. Marcel, his machine gun under his arm, continued to talk or try to talk in English. Earl spoke up.

  “That’s a German gun. Hey, let’s have a look.” But the Frenchman pulled away; no one was getting that gun for a second. “Bet the guy sleeps with it,” said Earl. At last Jim rejoined them.

  “Now, fellas, here’s the way things are. Scotty, leave that dame, will ya? C’mon over here.” Scotty was still in the far corner with the girl in ski pants; he returned to their table with reluctance. “Snap into it, Scotty; this is serious. Now we’re in the Dordogne, fellas, about twenty-six miles from the town of Bergerac. You were right, Earl, that was Bergerac we passed over. It’s about fifty to sixty miles from here to Bordeaux, as I get it, and something around two hundred and fi
fty to three hundred miles to the Spanish border. Staying here is dangerous for both us and these boys. It’s dangerous to stay and dangerous to leave, but we must try. The Resistance has it all planned out, and they’ve got lots of our men out before, so no reason at all why we shouldn’t make it if we do what they tell us. First, we must split up.”

  “How’s that? Split up Fried Spratt?”

  “Nuts to that! We’ve been together, three of us have, since the States, since that first winter in North Africa, since we hit Algiers.”

  “Why, we can’t split up! We can’t separate!” They protested, all of them. You couldn’t do that to Fried Spratt.

  “We must, boys. It’s no fun, but remember what they always told us—the Resistance knows their stuff, and we were to do whatever they said and take whatever orders were given by their leaders. We’re in their hands from now on out. Here’s how we’ll work it. Scotty and Earl go dead south and are guided across the Pyrenees.”

  “Gee, Jim, you mean we walk over those mountains?”

  “No, you dope, they send a Rolls-Royce for you. Where do you think you are, Scotty, in the U.S.? Or maybe you’d rather end up in a prison camp in Germany. Roy and I go southeast to the coast, where they’ll probably put us on a sub or a fishing smack for Portugal. It’s more dangerous, but Roy isn’t able to walk much and we can get there by train. Earl’s head will be all right in two-three days. Roy, the doc isn’t so sure about your trouble. He thinks it might be nothing more than a severe muscle sprain that will clear up, but he’s afraid it’s more likely the jouncing-up displaced something in your back, something that’s pressing on your sciatic nerve.”