by Nigel Jones
“Jesus, Jacques! That was close. So what’s the plan?” As always Jacques could see Sophie was not scared, in fact she found it thrilling.
“Tonight, under cover of darkness we go on our holidays to Laos.”
“What should I pack?”
“Some light fatigues to travel in and something for the evening when we get there. Don’t forget your bikini for the pool.” Another hail of debris covered her animated face.
“What about the rest of us, can we come?” a mockingly plaintive voice asked from across the bunker.
It had never been part of Jacques’s escape plan to include a whole platoon, he had anticipated making the journey when the battle was virtually over. He had no desire to be a prisoner of war and there was Sophie to consider, she must never suffer that again. The next morning would surely see the final push by the Vietminh to take the last of the mistresses. There were still several hundred survivors and, unbelievably a good many of them wanted to fight. Others were not so keen, and many could not. Jacques had fought beside these brave soldiers for months and those who wanted to escape deserved a chance to avoid captivity. They deserved their chance of freedom rather than just raising a white flag. Jacques had the skills to offer them that chance. “Okay, how many want to come with us on holiday?”
Four hours later the main body of the garrison that guarded Isabelle, the 5th mistress, made an attempt to break out. Only 68 troops, an English man and a French woman succeeded. They did so because of Jacques’s ability to move undetected through terrain, which although he had grown to hate, he had also learnt to understand and make his friend.
Once through the enemy lines he had them move in small groups, each group led by men with whom he had done his reconnaissance. He took five troops and Sophie, who had taken the weapons he’d given her and used them to stunning effect during their push for freedom. Once through the enemy lines they met no resistance. It seemed that the Vietminh were happy not to pursue them. They had their prize, which included well over 10,000 prisoners of war.
Once in Laos, Jacques and Sophie were easily able to return to Hanoi where they learnt of the scale of the defeat. On May 8th 1954 the Geneva Conference began, one day after the Garrison had finally capitulated in Dien Bien Phu. The conference had been arranged to negotiate the future of Indochina. Ho Chi Minh walked into the conference with reports of his troops’ victory in all the newspapers. The French were humiliated and Vietnam partitioned, the communist Democratic Republic in the North and a French supported State of Vietnam in the South. This temporary partition was supposed to end with elections, which would unite the country. After their ignominious defeat the French withdrew all their troops from Vietnam within two years, however the election never took place and the Americans replaced the French support for the South in an attempt to stop the spread of communism.
Of the 10,000 captured troops in Dien Bien Phu, less than 4000 survived to be repatriated, and the Vietnamese fallen angels were sent for re-education!
Saphine saw her future in the south and moved to Saigon where Sophie and Jacques also relocated for a short while. After the war they had a few good months together during which time Sophie produced some of her most incisive journalism. She wrote articles illustrated with photographs that, in part, may well have hastened the French withdrawal from Vietnam, and most certainly altered the French people’s perception of colonialism.
Though in a different club, but still as loved in the south and as big an icon as in Hanoi, Saphine’s voice filled the room. Sophie looked at the man she knew she loved and idly wondered what it would be like to live with him in a small fisherman’s cottage and cook his meals. She quickly put the ghastly thought out of her mind. She was quite happy to have lived another life with him.
“Will you go back and see Honeysuckle now, Jacques?” Lifting the gin and tonic to her lips. A drink she now loved because she associated it with Jacques.
“I don’t know if I can. I tried it for a couple of years and it was hell.” He was perfectly serious.
“What then? There is no work here for you anymore.”
“Isn’t there?” He had a wicked grin on his face.
“What are you up to, Jack?” She put the glass gently back on the table and gave him an almost threatening look. “Come on, tell me.”
Jacques loved that he’d kept a secret from his best friend all this time, but had decided she should know after all they had been through together.
“Come on, spill the beans or I’ll…”
“You’ll what?”
Grasping for a threat she said, “I’ll make you come to bed with me and Saphine. You know you couldn’t bear it.”
“Okay, you win. Do you really think I’ve been working for the French all this time?”
“What? But you have. You take orders from them.” She was incredulous.
“Yes I do, but I take orders from someone else too.” He was enjoying this.
“I can’t stand it, you bastard. Tell me.”
“Okay, okay, I’m British, am I not? I work for the British government.”
“And…”
“Being near Honeysuckle and seeing her all the time was unbearable, and the situation, ah well, you know the situation. Anyway, after the War the people who set up the Special Ops Executive asked if I’d work for them within the Secret Intelligence Service. I declined, wanting to be near Honeysuckle. When that didn’t work out, I thought, what have I got to lose? It seemed there was still plenty of intrigue in the world and battles, predominately against communism, to be fought.”
“More!” She demanded.
“The British Secret Intelligence Service wanted my unique skills to be put to good use. The Cold War was brewing nicely with the Russians, but I didn’t speak Russian. I did speak French though, and the powers that be believed Indochina would develop into another front against the threat of communism from China. My job?” he asked himself, “To assess that threat on the ground and assess the ability of the French to deal with it.”
“You are still a spy? You bastard, why didn’t you tell me?” She was really rather angry.
He leaned across and took her hand. “I was not spying during any of the stuff that we went through. I was fighting for the French and for our survival. All I’ve done is write a couple of reports. Actually, I used rather a lot of your material in them.” He grinned at her. “If I was a spy, I was not really spying on the French, it was the Vietminh that I was directing my energies against.” He waited, and then added more seriously, “This is not over, Sophie. The Americans will carry on this war against the Vietminh and I’m not sure they will be any better equipped to fight them than the French. Some of what I have learned in the past couple of years may just save some lives on both sides, who knows?”
“Will you fight with the Americans then?” She was calm now.
“I don’t know. It is not a battle I want fought at all. These are good people, they do not deserve to have their country turned into killing fields for other peoples’ political ambitions.” He looked over towards Saphine. “She does not deserve it.”
“What will you do?”
“After I return to London, I am to go to Washington and liaise with the U.S. military. After that, I don’t know.”
“And Saphine? Do you love her?” It was not a jealous question.
“Yes, in a way, but I love you even more.”
“But not as much as Honeysuckle.” She looked away. Why had she said that?
“In a different way, Sophie. I’m sorry, I can’t explain it.” He desperately did not want to hurt Sophie. Saphine was not a problem; Sophie had never been bothered by their sexual relationship. He knew that, but he also knew that Sophie was more in love with him than her demeanour ever showed, and increasingly Honeysuckle had become the object of a caustic comment or barbed remark.
Sophie had gathered herself together again. “You don’t have to, Jacques. I should not have said that. You belong to Honeysuckle. I have always known tha
t. I am being childish.”
Wanting to change the subject, Jacques asked, “What will you do next?”
Sophie was fine now. “I shall return to Paris and be civilised for a while, then I will probably come back here to report on the war you think will come. Who knows? If you are also here we may be able to have sex again in the jungle.”
They both laughed and each of them was taken back to the night they had spent in each other’s arms in Dien Bien Phu.
“It was good wasn’t it?” she said, knowing exactly what he was thinking.
“Yes, it was. It was the best night I have ever had.” He smiled at her.
“Better than Saphine?” One eyebrow rose as she spoke.
Yes, better than Saphine.” He knew what answer to give.
“Thank you.” She had a smile on her lips, and perhaps a tear in her eye.
Saphine was suddenly by their side and saw the tear. “Are you alright, Sophie?” she said, throwing Jacques an accusing look.
“I’m fine. I will be going back to Paris for a while and am just a bit sad at leaving.” She wiped away the tear and threw back the rest of her drink. “More G and T please, Jack old man.” She pushed her empty glass across the table towards him.
“I’ll be right back. The usual for you, Saphine?”
“Yes, please.” Saphine sat down next to Sophie and put her arm around her. “You’ll be back soon.” Jacques could hear her words fade as he walked to the bar.
Three weeks later Jacques boarded a B.O.A.C aeroplane in Kuala Lumpur bound for London. One hour earlier Sophie had stepped aboard an Air France flight for Paris. It had been a sad moment. Neither had wanted to leave the other, to walk away from the perfect relationship that could have been so much more, and at times had been so intense. It felt to them both that their parting would mark an end to the remarkable bond that they had formed during their time in Vietnam. But it was not an end. They promised to stay in touch and half-hoped that Vietnam would see them reunited one day.
Onboard the plane the stewardess handed Jacques a copy of The London Times. Hearing her English accent, he felt as if he was back in Blighty. He realised how little he had spoken English since his arrival in Vietnam. He had missed it.
“A cup of tea, sir?”
“Yes please, that would be lovely. Thank you.”
He found himself pondering how sad he was to be leaving Sophie and to be leaving his exotic sex kitten, Saphine. And under the circumstances he and Honeysuckle had found themselves in, how much was he really looking forward to seeing her again?
“Well, that is what I was thinking, Buster. I couldn’t help it. They were two astonishing women you know, quite beautiful, both of them.”
Buster looked up at him. ‘What was he talking about now?’ But talking usually meant remembering was over and he was hungry, so he arranged his position to accept the soon-to-be proffered food.
EIGHTEEN
The man pulled the collar of his coat together in an attempt to keep the cold wind out. It was the coldest day yet. Autumn was definitely on the way.
Buster seemed quite chipper today, leading the way past the barrows and along the path through the gorse bushes towards the bench. He suddenly stopped in his tracks and looked aghast.
Someone was sitting on the bench where his lunch would be served. Nobody ever sat there. It was his bench. If he could have been bothered he would have growled at them, instead he turned and looked beseechingly at the man with a ‘do-something’ look on his greying face.
The man laughed at Buster’s indignant look and said, “Good morning,” to the elderly couple sipping the steaming liquid they had in a cup and flask. “It’s a good day for a hot drink. Winter’s not too far away now.”
“Good morning. You’re right, the wind is quite bracing. We thought we would take a rest before we do the next part of the coastal walk. This is a beautiful spot, quite perfect. We have saved the best till last. We have just got to get back to Yarmouth now, and we will have walked all around the island.”
It was the lady who did the talking. She was perfectly dressed for hiking and even had a wonderful old gnarled wooden staff by her side.
“It’s a beautiful walk if the weather is kind to you. I did it many years ago with my wife and still take this old chap on the parts I love the most,” replied Jacques.
Buster was not happy. Why was the man talking to these usurpers in a friendly manner, so he grumbled his displeasure.
“Would your dog like a sandwich? We have far too many,” the woman asked.
“Oh yes! He likes sandwiches.”
Buster knew the word sandwich and he stepped towards the lady in anticipation. There followed a rustling in her rucksack and a huge doorstep of bread appeared with ham hanging out of it.
Buster couldn’t help himself. He sat up and begged. He hadn’t done it since he was little older than a puppy. How demeaning he’d thought, but for such a prize he would do anything.
Jacques laughed. “He hasn’t done that in years. You are honoured.”
“No, we are honoured,” and she handed the perfectly balanced dog the finest sandwich he had ever seen. Buster gently took it from her hand before voraciously devouring it in three bites. “My! He likes his food doesn’t he?”
By now Buster was sitting on the man’s lap, who had still not spoken, and was positioning his head on the lady’s thigh with pleading eyes.
“He’s quite a character. What is his name?” she asked.
“This is Buster. He seems to like you. I’m sorry. Get down, Buster.” Jacques went to pull his collar.
“It’s okay, we love dogs. Had one like him ourselves once.” It was the silent man, who was scratching Buster’s back. “Anyway, this must be his bench. I saw the look on his face when he first spied us sitting on it, and we must be on our way, so we will leave you two in peace.” He smiled at Jacques, and for a second Jacques was reminded of Simon‘s face before he was so grotesquely burned.
Buster was trying to lick the face of the lady, who obviously loved his attention. “You have Buster’s approval now.”
“So it seems, but we must love him and leave him. Come on Jim, we should make the four o’clock ferry to Lymington if we get on. It has been a pleasure meeting you both.”
“And you. Enjoy the last part of your walk. It’s particularly nice by Fort Victoria through the woods that border the edge of the beach.”
Buster scrambled to the floor and they were gone. He took a few steps after them in case any more sandwiches fell out of her bag, but they failed to materialise so he returned to the bench and, unaided, sat himself down next to the man with his head in its customary position.
“You were a lucky boy, weren’t you?” Buster didn’t know what lucky was. He assumed it was the same as being an exceptional hunter with the good sense to recognise some very nice people sitting on his bench who were easy prey!
Jacques was still thinking about Simon’s face. He had been back on the island for about four months. Simon was about to return from the Burns Unit in East Grinstead where Sir Archibald McIndoe was treating him.
Simon was now a fully paid up member of The Guinea Pig Club, a title chosen after the Battle of Britain when the unit was first established. It typified the humour and backbone of those who had been treated there. Guinea pigs, because that is quite literally what they were, pioneering the way in plastic surgery.
The club contained patients, doctors and nurses along with benefactors. All notes taken at the meetings had to be short because the secretary had his hands seriously burned and could only write slowly and badly. Any incumbent in the position of club secretary always had to have burnt legs so he could not run away with the money!
Honeysuckle had visited Simon once a week and each time had stayed overnight in a nearby hotel. She had told Jacques that they were doing a fantastic job with him, but he had not actually seen Simon for himself. He had seen burns and knew all about suffering, but he sat on his father’s fishing boat t
hinking about what Simon would look like. Would this reconstructive surgery leave him as handsome as he had been before? He was pretty sure it would not, but he really had no idea what he would look like. All that he did know was that he had enormous respect and compassion for the man who had suffered inside that burning Spitfire, and for the woman who visited him each week. The woman he loved.
It had been an awkward four months. Honeysuckle lived next door, but it was as if she went out of her way to avoid him. Whenever he did see her, his stomach became knotted and he often found it hard to find the words that had so readily been available between them all of their lives.
For her part, Honeysuckle longed to be with Jacques but avoided him as best she could in an attempt to ease the pain. Whenever she saw him all she wanted was to hold him.
Jacques started to fish with his father once again. It filled the days and after the horrors of war gave him just about enough excitement to stop him going insane. His parents knew the misery both he and Honeysuckle were experiencing and Big Jacques tried his hardest to make each day onboard the boat as much fun as he could. When he was not entertaining his son he sat and listened in awe to the stories Jacques told him of his exploits during the War.
They were good days, but the nights were not. It was as if the two households, who had loved each other and virtually coexisted for nearly thirty years, put up a barrier to stop their children suffering. Jacques decided to put an end to it. It was madness, Honeysuckle and he had to find a better way to deal with what had happened.
He knocked on the door and Honeysuckle answered. It had become the norm for her to panic when she saw his face. “Bonjour, Jacques, how are you?” she asked, as always in French.
“Bien, Honeysuckle. We must talk.”
“I know. Come in, Maman is at the Church.” She held the door open and followed him into the living room.
“We have to find a way of dealing with this. It is eating me up inside.” Jacques stood with his back to her by the fireplace; he was looking at the photograph of her father, seeing the resemblance to Honeysuckle for the first time.