Dunnett had been kept busy, fingers flying over the typewriter he packed along, looking up through a haze of cigarette smoke, only to swallow back more coffee in a frenzy to make the latest dispatch back to London.
Paul’s work with the camera had been limited to the encampment, hundreds of soldiers burrowed in just beyond the village, waiting.
“You still taking your pictures with your little camera?”
Micheleine smiled at him from across the fire that struggled against the misty rain, the first campfire they'd been allowed in the last few days. She had been among the civilian Resistance that had joined up with them, reporting back on advanced enemy positions.
Paul smiled. “Someone once told me that I need to take them so that people will know what happened here.”
The smile deepened as she ducked under the overhead canopy that protected against the rain and joined him beside the fire.
“Someone should teach you to build a fire.”
“Aye, well, everything is wet, and command doesn't want us giving away our position.”
She leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. “The Germans know your position, but they are too busy trying to figure out theirs.”
They talked, ironically of things old friends talk about when they haven't seen each other in a long time. War had a way of doing that, compressing everything into small pieces of time—months ago became yesterday, yesterday became today.
She motioned to the small table where Dunnett had been pounding out his story for the BBC, then had run off to meet the dispatch. A can of rations sat beside the typewriter.
“That is supper?” she asked, her dark eyes wide with disapproval.
“A gourmet meal when you're allowed to heat it up,” he replied.
She made a sound that could only be interpreted as disgust and shook her head.
“Come.” Her hand wrapped around his. “The French people are poor after these past years, but the least we can do is share a warm supper that is not found in a can.”
Her idea of a supper that wasn't in a can came compliments of one of the residents in Lisieux. He and his wife were supporters of the Resistance.
The food was simple, roast chicken and summer vegetables in a thick wine sauce, with the rest of the wine in their glasses at the table. A fire burned in the fireplace that heated the rest of the two-story house that had been in the owner’s family for a few hundred years.
After weeks of rations, usually eaten while on the march, a hot, home-cooked meal was like a feast, and the wine was smooth, warming through him with a faint glow.
“Their son is somewhere in the south of France,” Micheleine explained, taking a sip of the wine.
“He went before the occupation. They have not heard from him in some time.” The rest went unspoken.
“But now, with the Allies in France and General de Gaulle gathering the free French into an army, they hope it is almost at an end.”
Hope. There were times it was the only thing that was left.
“What about you?' he asked.
She shrugged. “I will be going north with the others. There is still work to do. The snake has not yet let go of my people.”
North, toward Belgium and that offensive that was building up.
“What about you, Paul Bennett?”
He smiled at the way she said his name. “The word is that we'll be going to Paris.”
She took another sip of wine. “We will take back our city,” she said, with a sudden fierceness.
“And crush the snake.”
The fire had burned low.
