0 comments/ 35562 views/ 0 favorites Talisman Ch. 6: Croix du Bois By: karmadog 17 Juillet 1917 The first thing he was aware of was pain. Then came light, but, at first, he thought it had something to do with the pain. Perhaps he was in a fire. But that wasn’t the case. There was an acrid smell, he was wet, his head hurt and the pain seemed to come strongest from his crotch. He gasped, but very little breath came. He put his hands to his face and found rubberized cloth covering his head. He fought with it frantically until it came away from his head. He looked at the cloth and it all came back. The bombardment, the frantic cry of “Gas!”, the struggle to get his mask on, the whistling sound of an approaching shell, then nothing. He reluctantly looked down at his body and screamed. “Jesus. We thought you’d earned the Croix du bois.” The poilu turned his head and shouted for help. 31 Decembre 1917 “You see, all of the front-line troops have a… well, they have a talisman against evil. And the only evil in the trenches is death. Anyone who has been there knows that no man can defeat death. The only defense is God, or the supernatural. Or both.” Lieutenant Patrick O’Brien’s injuries had nearly healed. He was to be returned to the front in seven days, but during his convalescence, he had become friendly with Maggie Compton, his American nurse. “I wonder if my husband had something?” Maggie thought aloud. Maggie’s eyes got started to mist over. Patrick looked away. Maggie’s husband’s military career had been both similar to Patrick’s and very different. Like Patrick, he had enlisted shortly after the war began, but he had joined the Foreign Legion through the French Embassy in Washington, while Patrick had joined the regular French Army by virtue of his double citizenship. Patrick was still at war three years later, while Maggie’s husband had been killed in his first action. At the start of the war, Patrick had been in Deauville visiting his mother’s family. Things at home in Detroit had gotten too awkward for Patrick to bear. His father had quit his job at the Ford factory to become a union organizer with Eugene Debs. Selling a union to the well-paid Ford workers was not easy, but after Eamon O’Brien had heard Debs speak in Terre Haute, he was convinced that the only way that the auto workers could get a fair shake was to unionize. Patrick’s mother, Cecile, couldn’t help but be upset. She couldn’t understand why a man who was making such a good living would stir up trouble. The end result, was a troubled household. So troubled that Patrick found work on a steamer to New York, then to Marseille, where he took a train to his mother’s family home. The de Tours family had a large apple orchard in Normandy and were happy to see Patrick, though a bit surprised as he hadn’t thought to warn them that he was coming. On his arrival they forced him to cable his parents to let them know where he was and that he was well. Patrick had taken to the agricultural way of life very quickly. He enjoyed the way the leaves came on the trees, then the beautiful white blossoms, and finally the lovely apples. He worked hard for his relatives, making sure that there could be no question that he had earned his place. During the summer, before the blossoms gave way to the fruit, there was little to do. He swam in the stream that flowed through the property and dried himself by laying in the sun. Or the family would picnic under the apple trees, the fragrant petals sometimes falling on their heads and shoulders. Often he would cycle to Caen to enjoy the rhythms of the city life he’d left behind in Detroit. Usually, he would just sit with a glass of wine and listen to people talk. His mother had made sure that he learned French when he was growing up, but fluency is difficult to attain without being surrounded by native speakers and Patrick desperately wanted to fit in. His mother sent letter after letter describing his father’s growing radicalism. A beating at the hands of a strikebreaker or the police, brief jailings on trumped up charges, and his increasing reliance on liquor. Patrick dutifully answered each one, in French, but for his part, he spoke of his love for the French countryside, the beauty of the nearby sea, and his affection and respect for his relatives. In one letter, he asked her how she could ever have left this paradise for his father. She wrote back that love is not a thing that one chooses, but that one is chosen by love. Not having been in love, Patrick could only wonder at a force that might turn one’s life upside down whether one wished it or not. “Patrick? Are you listening to me?” “I’m sorry Maggie. I was thinking of the orchard. What did you say?” “I said, what kind of things do the men carry? For their protection?” “Sometimes it is a cross--often it is a cross. You are aware of the religious nature of the war? We good French Catholics have God on our side, but, of course, the Germans believe that they have their Protestant God on their side. We are at a stalemate, so perhaps our Gods are of equal strength, or maybe we have the same God and he doesn’t care who wins. That’s what I think.” Maggie looked incredulous. “So God takes no interest in the affairs of men? I can’t believe that.” “He takes no interest in the affairs of nations,” Patrick clarified. “He’s interested only in individuals. We are God’s creations, not nations. God didn’t create Germany, or France, or even the United States. Men created them. God worries only about his creations. Would God worry about a hammer or a cooking pot?” Maggie didn’t care for philosophical discussions, because, inevitably, they led her to question why her husband had been taken from her so soon. “Other than crosses, what do they carry?” “Bibles, of course. There is always a story of how a bible in a tunic pocket stopped a bullet, so men believe it may work for them too. A lot of guys carry a lock of their girlfriend’s, or mother‘s hair. Or if they have a wife. A spent piece of shrapnel or a bullet that hit them and fell to the ground. A bullet removed from a wound. Rosseau carries an ear.” “What?” Maggie was horrified. “A trophy?” “No, no, no. It’s his own ear. It was sheared off by a piece of shrapnel from a trench mortar. He has big ears, well, one big ear now, and he believes that the size of his ear fooled death into thinking it was his head. How can that not be lucky?” They laughed, both thinking that it was strange the macabre things that war made amusing. “Would it be rude to ask you what your protection is?” “Virtue,” Patrick murmured as he turned red. “You mean you… What do you mean?” “I mean just that. I’m chaste.” “But you must be twenty-six or twenty-seven.” “No, Maggie. I’m twenty. When the war started I was just seventeen. I didn’t know very many people in France. But my cousin Robert joined with me. We joined the same regiment and when our training was done, we were sent to the front together. The Germans were pushing towards Paris and we were sent to help stop the push. “Robert was killed in a matter of minutes. We had been ordered to charge and so we did. Robert was a very fast runner, and he had gotten a couple of steps in front of me. His tunic blew outward as though it had been poked from inside by a finger. When the regiment came running back, I was still there holding Robert, but he had died before he hit the ground. “They wanted to shoot me for cowardice, but I convinced them that all I wanted to do was fight, and they let me fight. “The point is, I started to wonder what the difference was between me and Robert. Why had he died while I lived? I decided that it had been because he had had success with girls, while I hadn’t. My big nose drove them away.” “You don’t have a big nose.” “I’ve kind of grown into it during the war, I think. I’ve had to change my uniform three times. Somehow, the Germans didn’t find a boy racing towards them in short pants and cuffs at his elbows very threatening. Bayonet or not.” They fell silent. Dry branches ticked against the window and cast shadows that penetrated the dim lamplight. Patrick studied Maggie’s face. Her red hair was pulled back severely into a bun, but now, at the end of a long day, strands were escaping to halo her face. Her face was round and gave an overall impression of cheerfulness, freckles had been spattered haphazardly across her nose and cheeks and her nose turned upward slightly to end in a small bulb. But her deep, green eyes were ringed with dark that hinted at grief. Still, with her hair up and her ears sticking out like jug handles, it was hard not to smile at her. Maggie looked back from the window into Patrick’s eyes. “It’s almost midnight,” she said. “Yes.” They looked at each other and then each leaned toward the other and they kissed each other briefly on the lips. “I must go. It will be an early morning. And you must report for your assignment.” “I think they’re going to assign me to orient some of the new American officers. Should be easy duty.” They said their goodbyes and Maggie turned to leave. Patrick watched the movement of her hips and buttocks as she moved. Above the waist, she looked slender, almost girlish, but her tiny waist swelled into large hips and a generous behind that mesmerized Patrick every time he saw it. He felt the familiar swelling in his groin and thanked God that it no longer hurt. When he had first begun to heal, he had been strapped to a wooden frame that held his arms and legs open to prevent the returning skin from growing together. He remembered that, during the Somme offensive, the hospital had been so busy that the usual male doctors and nurses had been unable to attend to the recovering patients, so Maggie had been sent to change his dressings. She had been gentle, more gentle than the men who seemed angry that they had to touch any penis, let alone one that was so horribly damaged, but when she pulled the loose gauze away, some scabs had pulled away with it. Patrick flinched, and Maggie immediately stopped. Patrick assured her that pain was a necessary part of the process and to continue. Finally, after several fits and starts, she got the gauze removed and began to apply the ointment. Maggie’s cool hands on him, and the sight of the tip of her tongue in the corner of her mouth had caused Patrick to get an erection. Maggie’s pale skin did little to hide her embarrassment, but she continued to apply the balm. Just as she finished, a strand of hair fell and touched Patrick’s wounded penis and he came all over himself. Maggie jumped, but she held his manhood and, he thought she even squeezed it a little, but did not say anything about it, she just reached for a clean towel and wiped up the mess along with the excess salve. Then she changed the dressings under his arms. Now, Patrick couldn’t help but remember that scene whenever she was near. Perhaps her presence had aided the healing process. The doctors had been concerned that the new skin on his penis would grow too tightly and never allow him to have an erection without pain, but the erection he had now was not painful. There was a feeling of fullness, as if he was too large for his skin, but it was not at all unpleasant. So perhaps the frequent erections Maggie had caused had been beneficial. 16 Janvier 1918 Patrick’s unit was in the reserve trench when he found them. They had just returned from a night on the front line. Sgt. Malveaux was the first to spot him. “Hey look, boys! Our Yankee altar boy is back! And what is this? You’ve been promoted? Must I call you “Sir” now? Let me step back and salute the new lieutenant.” Malveaux had been a sergeant since before the war began. He had received two battlefield promotions, but always refused them. He did not see himself as an officer. He didn’t care for the airs that officers put on, and he was afraid he might be taken away from the front. “How did this happen? I thought you were going to teach your American brothers how to fight,” said Malveaux. “Yes, I was, but they said they thought that Pershing would take care of them just fine. I tried to explain that this is not like chasing Mexican bandits, but they wouldn’t listen. I think they will make the same mistakes we did.” “What about the Somme? Didn’t you explain about the Somme?” “They think they are better than the Tommys. They probably are, but they will still lose a lot of men they don’t need to. The best thing we can hope is that we will not be forced into an offensive with them.” “But the promotion? How did that happen?” asked the burly Sergeant. “Officially, it was for the action when I got wounded, but unofficially, I think I got it because I cursed Col. Gaithers in public. The General Le Clerc hates him and he overheard me. Either he didn’t notice that I was speaking French, or he doesn’t realize that Gaithers can’t speak it because he called me into his office and promoted me that afternoon.” “Better to be promoted for your mouth than for getting knocked on the head and gassed. Anyone can do that. Come, sir, we will have a brandy to celebrate your elevation.” “Wait. Where is Rosseau?” “Dead. We were at the evening stand to and he turned his head to say something to me and he got it. Apparently, he was right. The bullets did think his ear was his head. He made the mistake of turning his remaining ear toward the enemy. This one went right through his ear and into his head. Now lets get that brandy.” Patrick crawled into a bunk to try to get some sleep before they had to go to the front for the night. Nominally, he was in charge of ten men’s lives, but he knew that, like all armies, his sergeant, Malveaux, would really be in charge. Still, he felt the responsibility. Some of the men would be put off by Malveaux’s sarcasm and bluff attitude--he would never call Patrick “sir” with anything but irony, for example--and they would look to Patrick for guidance. The thought of that made him nervous. He was twenty and knew next to nothing about women, but he was big, bigger even than Malveaux and he knew how to fight. Perhaps he would be okay. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Maggie Compton. He had been able to see her a couple of times before he left, but the New Year’s kiss had not been repeated. Nor, of course, had the incident with the salve, but she had asked him to call on her the next time he got leave. He woke to Malveaux’s big hand shaking him. “Let’s go. It’s time to kill some Boche. We are to patrol tonight if we keep to the schedule,” Malveaux said. They gathered the men and arrived in time for the evening stand to. The ritual of the evening and morning stand to was observed by both sides. The men would poke their heads and rifles over the top of the revetment to be sure that no attack was coming and to provide a show in case the enemy was considering one. Several men would be hit by sniper fire, but it was also good for the raw men to come under fire. None of the men from Patrick’s squad were hit, although a bullet had hit the sandbag next to one of the new men’s elbows and he had soiled his pants. The poor man would never hear the end of it even though it was not uncommon. The first time someone tries to kill you is always surprising. “For the patrol tonight, Malveaux, pick four men for me. You stay and babysit the others. I want to get back into this as quickly as possible. I’ve been away too long.” “Most are recruits, but Lavache, Utuburu, Clement, and Duval are steady. You may have to hold Utuburu back. He is a little crazy but very good with a knife. He‘s Basque” Utuburu was small and wiry like a well cured tree limb, but his eyes were a little wild. Patrick sat the men down and tried to explain that all they needed to do was try to survive a night in no man’s land. They did not need to be heroes. Lavache, Clement, and Duval nodded their heads, but Utuburu just looked at him from under his cap and spat. Patrick told them to see to their weapons, that they would go over the top at full dark. Malveaux brought the men to Patrick at the appointed time and Patrick looked them over and checked their rifles. “Good,” he said. “You look ready. We go over the top one at a time. I will go first and Malveaux will send the rest of you at intervals. Stay close enough behind me that you don’t lose touch, but not so close that one grenade can get us all. Keep your eyes and ears open and do not fire your weapons. They will only call down the big guns and the rifle of every man in range. If we must fight, use the knife or the grenade. Got it?” Patrick turned away and carefully raised his head above the sandbags. He saw nothing, so he quickly climbed over the top and into the darkness. He made his way to the wire and waited to be sure that the others were with him. When they had all arrived he put a finger to his lips and began to crawl through the maze of wire. They moved slowly, freezing when an artillery burst lit the sky, until they came to the listening post. Patrick whispered the pass word and they kept moving until they came to Fritz. Fritz was a German who had been killed months before. Each poilu touched the skeletal hand for luck as he passed. So many patrols had passed by Fritz that the bones of his hands were worn smooth and they shone in the faint starlight. Patrick moved his men parallel to the German trench and moved to the north. They were supposed to try to find and mark the coordinates of German listening posts and make sure that no assaults were being massed. There was a muffled clink from somewhere to Patrick’s left. It could be another French patrol, but more likely it would be Germans. He held up his hand so the men behind him would stop and tried to see in the gloom. Behind him, he could hear his men breathing and one of them moving. He held up his hand again, but the movement did not stop. He looked back and saw Utuburu crawling toward the sound, his knife gleaming in his right hand. He was too far away to call back, so Patrick signaled the men to follow and they set off in Utuburu’s wake. Utuburu took a position in a shell crater and the rest of the patrol found holes of their own to duck into. There was a whisper of German and, in the dim light, they could see them moving towards them. The first of them moved past Utuburu, then slowly past Patrick, but somehow, he spotted Lavache. There was a brief cry and the sound of a struggle, then a sharp cry, but by that time, Patrick had pulled his man into his crater and stuck his knife deep into the man’s neck and he died with barely a sound. Patrick started to crawl back towards Lavache, but before he could get out of the hole there was an outcry in German and rifles started to fire. Then the machine guns opened up and he called for his men to stay down. The French line started firing and there was nothing to hear but machine guns stitching through the night. They stayed undercover until the firing stopped and then Patrick crawled out of his hole and started looking for his men. He found Lavache first, dead with a German knife sticking out of his chest and a German with his head splattered on the side of the crater. Next he found Clement and Duval who had accounted for their men. He told them to stay put while he got Utuburu and set off for the last spot he had seen him. Utuburu had the body of a German soldier and an officer next to him. Both had had their throats neatly cut, but it seemed Utuburu had also been cut. He was gasping for air but he didn’t make a sound. Patrick found the hole in his back and knew that Utuburu would not be returning to his mountains. He’d been stuck through the liver, and gouts of blood were pouring from him into the earth. Patrick tried to stop the bleeding, though he knew it was useless, and soon Utuburu lay quiet. Patrick crossed himself and reached for Utuburu’s identification and papers. Perhaps he had a letter written to a sweetheart or his mother. He was putting the Basque’s papers in his tunic and reaching for his tags with his other hand when he felt heat coming from the body. Patrick jerked his hand back there was far too much heat for the cooling body to possess. He stretched his hand back toward the body with his fingers outspread. Yes, there it was. He had not imagined it. Talisman Ch. 6: Croix du Bois Tentatively, he moved his hand closer and fumbled in the dark to find what the source of the mysterious heat. It seemed to be coming from inside Utuburu’s breast pocket. Patrick reached in and felt something hot and smooth like a river-stone. He tried to remove it, but soon realized that it was pinned to the inside of the pocket. He unpinned it and held it up to look at it, but he could see little more than a pale disc in the darkness. Patrick pocketed the item and went to find his men. 17 Janvier 1918 One of the most onerous duties of an officer is writing to the next of kin of his soldiers. Patrick was discovering that it was particularly difficult when he didn’t know the man he was writing about at all. He didn’t like the idea of writing generic plaudits--”He performed his duty admirably under heavy fire. He has earned the respect of all who fought with him. France is grateful.” But he found himself writing exactly these sorts of things. Something was poking him in the chest he rubbed the spot and jumped at the sharp pain. When he reached into his tunic pocket he rediscovered the forgotten disc. On the front, carved in relief, was what appeared to be a man on one leg, apparently in combat as he was wielding a sword. On the other side was a bare breasted woman who seemed to be dancing. There were a series of holes at the top through which a short loop of leather cord had been threaded and attached to the cord was a pin. The warmth that had emanated from the thing the night before was gone. It carried only the heat of Patrick’s own body. The medallion seemed to be made of bone or ivory and polished to a high gloss under the grime. Patrick rubbed the thing clean with a saliva dampened thumb. When the grime was gone, it seemed to glow in the lamp-lit bunker. Without thinking, Patrick pinned the medallion in his own tunic pocket as Utuburu had then he went to his cot to attempt to sleep for the rest of the day. Malveaux was surprised to find himself being awakened by Patrick that evening. “Are you ready? Do we patrol tonight?” Patrick asked. “No, the 23rd patrols tonight. What has you so eager tonight? Are you sick?” “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the excitement of being at the front again. Regardless of the misery, you have to admit there is a bit of a thrill.” “I suppose. Don‘t get too thrilled or you‘ll earn the Croix du bois.” Again they made it to the frontline trench in time for the stand to. After Patrick and Malveaux got the men positioned, they sat together sipping some of the de Tours family brandy. They spoke of military matters for a while: the relative merits of the Colt, the Lebel, the Webley, and the Luger; the best amount of time to wait between pulling the pin on and throwing a grenade; which men would handle the stresses of combat the best. Then, uncharacteristically for Patrick, the talk turned to women. “What is the best way to get a woman to… ? You know,” Patrick asked. “Is this my choirboy speaking? Have the heavens turned inside out, or has Hell released a succubus to tempt you? What can this mean? Will the Messiah return tonight?” Some of the men, sensing some fun, came closer to listen. “Come on, Malveaux, you know what I’m asking. Don’t make this more difficult for me.” “Okay, okay. I can be a father figure when I must. Well, sir, tell me, do you think she likes you? Do you think her knees get weak when she sees you? Does she put her hand to her breast at the mere thought of you? No? Well, I’ll tell you what I would do, though I am no officer. I would take her some flowers. Wait, wrong season. I would take her some wine!” “Better still,” chimed in Duval. “Wine loosens the bloomers!” “Yes,” continued Malveaux, “now shut up. I am instructing a young man in the ways of love. And in any case, one can tell by looking at you that you are nearly as ignorant as he. Now when you bring her the wine, you should also have a baguette and some good cheese. If you can find any, some apples or pears. With luck she will invite you in to take a meal. If, I say “if”, because you are not so pretty or of so high a rank to make this a certainty, if she lets you in, you must pour her some wine as soon as you may. If she drinks without waiting for you, take your cheese and fruits and go. But, this is where you must pay attention, if she waits for you to drink, you must immediately take her in your arms and kiss her full on the mouth.” “This is not too forward, too brazen.” The men laughed as quietly as they could, but the thought of an officer having to ask these questions was too delicious. “No, a thousand times no. A woman is only interested in a man who is forceful, who will take what he wants. Subtlety is lost on the creatures. “Now listen. If she should put her arms around you, you must be sure to take her immediately to the couch or the bed. Whichever is nearer. For practical purposes, it does not matter. In fact, if neither is near, you must throw her on the table.” He stopped as though a thought had just occurred to him. “Make sure you do not knock over the wine, though. If all goes well, you will be thirsty. “Then, you should lift her skirts and find what is underneath. There will be a great quantity of under things, but don’t mind them. You can move all of them aside. Then, jump in the saddle! You are there.” “Yes. All good advice,” chimed in Clement, “but you have forgotten how much women enjoy cleaning the stem. And also, it makes for another bout of loving all the sooner.” “Clement, that is an unexpected stroke of genius coming from you. I thought you nothing but a fool, but apparently, there is a thought rattling around in that large kettle you call a head.” Duval, feeling that he must get into the action, said, “And you mustn’t forget, after the stem is clean you must cherchez le fond! No woman will feel that the lovemaking is done if you do not.” “Cherchez le fond? Are you sure? That doesn’t sound…” “Yes, yes!” said Malveaux. “A woman must be made to feel as though… as though… As though she were full of love. Brimming.” “Well, thank you, men. I am surprised by your advice. I had thought that women were demure creatures, shy creatures. But I bow to your superior experience.” “Yes, sir. They are only shy in public. Their private natures are very different. I am sure that you won’t even have to tell us how things went. Your face will tell the happy story.” With that, Malveaux dispersed the men, and went down the line making sure that everyone was where they should be, and that they were awake. Patrick sat in his bolt hole and thought of Maggie doing the things the men had suggested. His erection felt fuller than it ever had. Like a sausage about to burst on the fire. But somehow, the thought of Maggie made his heart fell the same way. He bent over his erection and it poked into the notch in his breastbone as though it were seeking it’s partner in pain. Patrick found himself walking toward the German line. There was a flame in his breast, but no sniper, no sentry, no patrol could see him. He looked at his feet and saw that the very earth was catching fire beneath his feet, though it did not burn him. Finally, when he was no more than ten yards from the German line, someone saw him and raised a cry. Bullets flew to the left and the right of him, and ate the ground at his feet, but they could not touch him. For some reason, he stood on one leg and waved his arm and a sheet of flame flew from his hand and many of the Boche burst screaming into flames. Patrick woke with a start not realizing where he was. His hand was clutching the medallion in his tunic pocket so hard that the pin had entered his palm and drawn blood. Without quite knowing why, he crawled from his bolt hole and began to climb the trench wall. “What are you doing, Patrick,” Malveaux said. “It is not our night to patrol.” “I heard something. Let me go.” Malveaux dropped his hand and watched Patrick climb over the revetment and disappear. With an exasperated sigh and a muffled curse, he followed. Patrick quickly made his way out to no man’s land and shook hands with Fritz. Then he unerringly made his way toward the German line. He had never been able to move this quickly, this silently. Before he knew it, he had circled around to the side of a German listening post. The two men were asleep. He dropped into the hole and pulled out his heavy American bayonet and slashed it across the throat of the nearest man, nearly decapitating him. The other man heard something and awoke, but he only stared up at the apparition that soon cut his throat as well. Malveaux came up just in time to see Patrick sawing the second man’s head the rest of the way off. He lifted it by the hair and set it facing the German lines with the first man’s head. Patrick climbed back out of the hole, grabbed Malveaux’s sleeve and said, “Let’s go.” When they got back to their trench, Malveaux just looked at Patrick and shook his head then walked down the line to check on his charges. 28 Janvier 1918 Patrick had gone out every night after that and slain one or two Germans, and once he had ambushed a patrol with his knife and a Luger that he had taken from an earlier kill. He had had to wait out an hour of firing and a brief artillery barrage before he could go back to the French line, but when he returned, he brought four more pistols and some ammunition. These were enough to arm all of his men with pistols to go with their carbines and bayonets. Malveaux was thankful when they were called back to the rear. Patrick had become a demon of some kind. He seemed not to be able to get enough blood, and the violence with which he drew it. Frightening. Malveaux had begun to worry that they should not have played the joke on him, for what might he do when he realized what they had done? For his part, Patrick felt strange wearing the medallion when he got away from the front, but when he drew it out and looked at it, he decided that the other side seemed more appropriate to wear around civilians, so he pinned it to his under tunic with the other side facing outward. The first thing he did when he got back to the village was to seek out Maggie at the hospital. She had to work until evening, so he went to buy a bottle of wine, a baguette and whatever fruit and cheese might be found. Then he went back to the barracks for a little nap. When he awoke, he could not remember his dreams, but he had soiled his undergarments and his penis was mottled red and white with the scar tissue and the blood of engorgement. Cleaned, bathed, and shaved, he presented himself at Maggie’s door promptly at seven. She opened the door before he could knock and greeted him with a beautiful smile. “I saw your name in the paper. You are to be awarded the Croix de Guerre! They say you heroically wiped out a German patrol single handed. I am so proud of you.” Patrick thought of the battle with the patrol. He had risen among them in the darkness and killed two with the knife in his left hand before they even knew he was there. Then he had shot the other three as their heads were barely turning towards him. He knew he had butchered them. That it had been no battle nor was it heroic. He looked down and studied his feet. “Oh, but you have brought wine! And winter apples! Oooh and soft cheese! A feast. Come in, we’ll have a meal together.” She gathered up the foodstuffs in her arms and looked over her shoulder at Patrick. One glance at her beautiful neck, gracefully turned to present her lovely face, and he forgot all about the front and followed her inside. “I’ll set the table if you’ll open the wine.” She tossed him a corkscrew and Patrick set to work. The cork came out with a satisfying ’pop’ and he poured them each a glass of wine. Maggie looked at him and raised her glass. “To my good friend, the hero!” Patrick tipped his glass and Maggie drank from hers at the same time. Now what could this mean, he thought? Maybe I should just kiss her gently, rather than forcefully. Patrick reached for Maggie and pulled her close. He could see the surprise in her eyes, but he kissed her anyhow. Maggie’s mouth opened to him and she flicked her tongue lightly against his lower lip. Patrick had never felt anything like it. Her tongue tasted slightly of the wine, and he could smell ether from the hospital in her hair. They both dropped their glasses of wine and moved towards the daybed. One of Patrick’s hands dropped to her behind and squeezed. Cherchez le fond, he thought, but not yet. When they reached the daybed, he lifted her skirts and started to paw the various undergarments to the side. “Wait. No, wait, Patrick,” Maggie said breathlessly. “Let me.” Patrick reluctantly pulled his mouth away from Maggie’s as she stood up. He sat back on the couch and watched as Maggie undid the buttons on her dress and dropped it to the floor. Malveaux was right. There were a confusing array of undergarments. But he watched carefully so that he might be able to remove them another time. When finally she stood naked before him in a pool of cotton and silk, he asked her to stop and let him see her. At first she tried to cover herself with an arm across her small neat breasts and a hand covering her lower parts, but she looked in Patrick’s eyes and saw that he was awestruck. She slowly lowered her arm from her breasts to expose the delicate tips that rode on a fuller, puffy plum. Then she raised both arms slowly above her head as she spun slowly around. Patrick asked her to stop again as her buttocks came into view. They made him think of fresh baked bread but they looked far, far more delicious than that. Maggie resumed her turn and he admired the way her breasts had risen and tightened on her chest, then he looked lower at the delicate wisp of red that rose on a slight rise between her legs. He pulled her toward him and her back arched, and with that movement, her mound seemed even more pronounced. He ran his fingers through the fine and springy hair and watched it pop back erect after his fingers passed. He became aware of a scent rising from between her legs and leaned down to drink it in. It reminded him of the sea near the orchard, of apples and sea foam. When he exhaled, his breath blew through the little red forest on the hill and Maggie trembled. So he did it again. This time a small moan escaped her lips and she slightly opened her legs. Patrick rubbed his face on the mound and suddenly, he was supporting Maggie’s full weight. He lowered her to the daybed and continued his examination of this undiscovered country. Maggie’s legs were spread widely, so he touched her between the legs. Like an apricot, he thought, I will eat it until the juices run down my face. Tentatively, he touched his tongue to her, to taste her, to open the apricot. The wispy hairs tickled his nose, but he didn’t care. He brushed his hand through them and listened to the sound that made. Like the wind through the dunes. He crushed the hairs flat and swiped the flat of his tongue between this lower set of lips he had found and was rewarded with a flower. It resembled a lotus that he had seen at the Botanical Gardens in Detroit, but to him this was more beautiful. He touched the petals, stroked them, and made another discovery. At the top of this flower was another tiny one. Just a bud really, but it seemed to be trying to bloom. He touched it and it moved a little. He touched it again and Maggie moved like the waves of the sea. “Again,” she said. Patrick was going to do that anyway, but he made her wait. He watched the little bud throb as though it might burst into flower at any moment. “Please, please, please,” Maggie chanted. He kissed the little bud and twirled it with his tongue and Maggie writhed. He sucked it into his mouth and Maggie’s whole body tensed in an arch and her legs opened yet wider. A loud grunt escaped her, and she grabbed his hair to hold him in place. Patrick couldn’t see what was happening to the flower and the bud, so he reached up to fell what was happening and his finger slid on Maggie’s lubrication and, seemingly on it’s own, disappeared inside of Maggie. Maggie’s body spasmed, then arched again and held in the bowed position. She was pulling Patrick’s hair quite hard now, but he barely noticed, because the flower was rhythmically squeezing his finger. Maggie’s breath shuddered out of her, and her body went limp. Patrick pulled his face away and looked at his hand with one finger inside of Maggie. He pulled the finger out and it was shiny with juice, then pushed it back in and Maggie twitched. He began moving his finger back and forth and watched it all. Maggie’s breath was coming quick and shallow, and Patrick realized that he was breathing as though he had just run thorough no man’s land in the rain with a heavy pack. In the back of his mind, he heard, “Cherchez le fond!” The way that Maggie was laying with her legs wide open and her hips pumping, he could see it, red and winking at him, shiny with Maggie’s juices. He touched it, and Maggie’s back arched so hard that he thought she might hurt herself, but she grabbed his hand and rubbed it back and forth and around on her most hidden part. Patrick pushed forward a little and his finger slid inside. Maggie seemed to be aiming her genitals at him, so he kissed the tiny, yet swollen, bud again and Maggie started to breathe hard and ragged, with each exhalation she grunted, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Then her back arched again and Patrick’s face was flooded with liquid. Maggie pumped once again, and froze. And then Patrick could feel the little bud throbbing against his tongue and the little muscle squeezing his finger in unison. When they finally stopped throbbing, Patrick raised his head and looked at Maggie. She looked ravaged. All over her head strands of hair had come loose from the bun and were plastered by sweat to her face and neck. Her face was turned to the side and she had what looked almost like a drunken smile on her face. Her arms were raised over her head, and Patrick could see little tufts of red hair in the armpits that he hadn’t noticed before. They too were plastered to her skin by sweat. Patrick leaned over and kissed them then kissed Maggie tenderly on her lips. At first she seemed surprised to find his face so wet, but then she kissed and licked the liquid away. “I have never felt anything like that before,” she said. “You were telling me a story about being chaste.” “No. And it is still true.” “Oh, you can have no doubt that we will take care of that tonight. But you must let me catch my breath.” The wine glasses were shattered on the floor where they had dropped them, and Maggie started to get up to get them new glasses, but her legs collapsed and she fell back to the daybed. “I think maybe you better get the wine. My legs seem to be made of rubber.” Patrick got up and swept up the broken glass, then found two fresh ones in the cupboard. He came back to the daybed where Maggie was still spread wantonly and offered her a glass of wine. She took a sip, then set her glass on the floor. “Why don’t you undo those leggings. You’ll be more comfortable.” Patrick sat down and unwound his leggings without taking his eyes off of Maggie. The red flush had not yet faded from her chest and thighs and her freckles stood out on her flesh like a star field. He reached out to caress her thigh, but she stopped him. “Ah ah ahh. Fetch me an apple won’t you?” Patrick went to the table and stood before her with the apple, but she was staring at the bulge in the front of his trousers. “It has been a long time since I have seen this,” she said. “I hope it looks better than it did the last time.” She reached for his trouser buttons and slowly undid them. Too slowly for Patrick, he pushed her hands away and tore open his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Maggie grabbed his skivvies and pulled them down. Maggie watched him go downward, then rebound back up and vibrate. Talisman Ch. 6: Croix du Bois “Yes,” she said, “it looks much better.” Maggie grabbed a hold of it and pulled him down to the day bed by it. Patrick kissed her as she rubbed him up and down her opening. Patrick began to push toward the slick wet feeling, but Maggie held him back with her other hand on his chest. “Wait. It’s better if you take it slow,” Maggie cooed. Patrick looked down at her breasts and saw that her nipples had drawn together into tight, nubbins that were crinkled around the edges. While they seemed not as pretty as they had when they were smooth, they were infinitely more attractive. In his mouth, he discovered that they tasted like a mild spice cake. When he sucked them he discovered that they got longer and darkened in color, and Maggie started moaning louder and louder. Finally, he got impatient waiting for Maggie to let him thrust forward and bit her nipple. Not very hard, but she jumped a little and her legs wrapped tightly around his back and drew him into her. Patrick threw his head back and stayed still, buried to the hilt inside Maggie. “Oh God, Maggie. It’s…” “Shh. Keep going.” Patrick started moving with and inside her. Slowly, at first, then quicker and quicker, there bodies making a slapping sound where they met. Maggie had her legs spread as wide as they could go and still he tried to get deeper, but he could see that her legs were in the way. He lifted her legs in front of him and put her knees over his shoulders and then, then he could feel it. He had found the bottom. He stopped and pushed against it with a rocking motion. His tip caressing her deep inside. Maggie’s head was thrashing from side to side. “Yes, yes, yes” with each thrust as he came inside of her and Maggie dragged her fingernails down his back. Afterwards, they lay nested against each other on the daybed idly toying with each other. “Maggie, that was incredible. I can’t believe that I waited so long.” “You mean you would have done it with any girl who let you?” “No, of course not. Well… I don’t know. Maybe. If I had known it was like that.” “Patrick, that isn’t the way to make a girl feel special. Besides, it isn’t always like that.” Patrick got up to get the wine bottle, but stopped on the way back to admire Maggie. She had fully released her hair while he had been up, and it spread around her head in a wild mass of red. “I must look a mess. With my hair all, I don’t know, like a mare’s nest.” “No.” Patrick couldn’t say anymore than that. The words seemed to catch in his throat. Maggie looked at him and saw that he was rising again. It would pulse and rise, then lower a little, but with each pulse it was raising itself higher and higher until he was fully erect. Maggie licked her lips and said, “Come here.” When Patrick moved as though to lay down next to her, she swung her legs to the floor and said, “No. Right here,” and pointed to the floor between her knees. Patrick walked close to her and she reached up and cupped his testicles in one hand while with the other she lightly touched him. “The texture is so strange. Velvety, then smooth where the scar tissue is. Look. You’re spotted like a pinto pony.” He groaned in response. Maggie leaned over and kissed the shaft, then she ran her tongue up the length of it. To Patrick, it felt strange. The sensation changed from exquisite to just good as her tongue passed from scar tissue to healthy pink skin. Then his knees almost buckled as she took him in her mouth. “Mmmm,” Maggie said, then started moving her head rhythmically up and down. Patrick put his hands on each side of her head and started moving his hips back and forth. Maggie started moaning deep in her throat and the vibrations traveled into Patrick like an earthquake. When Maggie squeezed his testicles, it was all he could take and he exploded in her mouth. Maggie, who had never had such a thing happen before started to choke, but she regained her composure and swallowed quickly. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth she said, “That tastes awful. Please don’t do that again. At least, not without warning me.” She took a large drink of wine while Patrick apologized. “It’s okay, honey. It just caught me by surprise. Now sit next to me.” Patrick collapsed on the couch and Maggie curled up with her head on his shoulder. “Maggie, you’re amazing. I’ve never experienced anything like this before.” He caressed her hair. “Could you reach my wine? I don’t think I can move.” Maggie stretched across Patrick’s lap to get her wine and her beautiful behind stretched before him. He stopped her from getting back up so he could caress the beautiful white globes. He kneaded them, caressed them and squeezed them, while she began to squirm in his lap. He reached between her legs and touched her lower lips. He raised his hand back to her behind and spread the cheeks. Looking back at him was the prettiest dark-pink piece of flesh he had ever seen. He let the cheeks snap closed and then fingered her some more. Then, for no reason that he was aware of he slapped her behind. Maggie gasped and looked at him, but she didn’t say anything. Patrick went back to playing with her wet pussy while he hardened and a pink handprint slowly appeared on her buttock. “Do that again.” “Did you like it? It felt good?” Patrick asked. “I’m not sure, but try it again.” Patrick raised his hand and swatted her on the other cheek, and again watched his handprint appear. Now he was sure that Maggie enjoyed it. She was grinding her hips against his fingers so he did it again, really giving her a spanking. Her ass was turning red and giving off a palpable heat. Patrick took his wet finger out of her pussy and pushed it against the opening to her hidden hole. Again Maggie pushed backward and his finger slipped in easily past the second knuckle. “Wait,” Maggie said. Then got up and went to another room. When she came back, she was carrying a glass jar and unscrewing the lid. “I’d brought this from the hospital for your scars. So they don’t crack in the cold, but I think it might work for what I have in mind.” She slathered a generous handful on his penis, then bent over the back of the daybed. Patrick knew what she wanted and walked around behind her. Carefully, he lined up with the red bud and pushed gently forward. “Go slow, lover,” Maggie said nervously. Patrick reached under her hips to find the little nubbin that brought Maggie so much pleasure and sure enough, he could feel her juices drizzling onto his hand, while her behind opened up to him. Gradually, his manhood disappeared into her until he could go no deeper. He found that his hand was in her hair pulling her head back and to the side so that he could see her face. Her expression was one of complete abandon. Her mouth was open and she was panting through it. Her eyes were staring sightlessly at nothing on the wall, and her hair was plastered to her forehead. Patrick started moving slowly back and forth but quicker and quicker until he was doing her as hard as he could. When he came, Maggie cried out, “I can feel it! Oh God, I can feel it!” Patrick collapse on Maggie’s back, spent, but still inside of her. He could feel that she was rubbing herself frantically until she came and the contractions forced him out. They saw each other every night of his leave week. And made plans for when he would return from the front in three weeks--one week at the front and two in reserve, then another week of leave. Maggie made him a cord to hang his talisman around his neck, and for the first time, Patrick thought he might survive the war. EPILOG 4 Fevrier 1918 Sergeant Malveaux and the men of Patrick’s unit saw him coming toward them with a bounce in his step that was unusual in a man going to the front. “Bonjour, gentlemen!” he called out. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful day?” “Eh, no. Did you have a good leave?” “Yes. Yes I did, and I want to thank you gentlemen for your excellent advice. Things could not have gone better.” Dumbfounded, they stared at Patrick’s back as he walked to report to the captain, whistling a jaunty tune.