They got the message and started for the stairs. As the mother went past, Cole grabbed the shotgun out of her hands.
This got her started on a fresh tirade. It was clear that having been forced to come out of the shadows, the woman of the house was now as riled as an angry hen by the intruders in her home.
I reckon I would’ve preferred a ghost, Cole decided.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Returning to the second-floor hallway from the attic, they got things organized and headed down to what Bauer called the drawing room, which had become their headquarters. This time, Cole brought up the rear so that he could shoot anyone who tried to make a run for it — Bauer in particular.
He wasn’t all that worried about the two women. They still needed to figure out what was going on with them, but Cole didn’t see them as a real danger or threat.
In a few minutes, he would find out that he might have been wrong about that.
Downstairs, the warmth of the fireplace was welcome after prowling through the cold rooms above, not to mention the light from the flames themselves. There had been something unnerving about the search through the empty upstairs rooms and then coming across the two women in the attic. It was one thing to face the enemy, quite another to confront the possibility of ghosts and spooks, and something altogether different to find flesh-and-blood occupants.
The warm glow of the fireplace cast a welcoming light in the otherwise dark and cold room. The flickering flames danced on the walls, providing a sense of comfort and safety. The burning logs crackled and popped, sounding vaguely to Cole’s ears like distant gunfire in the otherwise quiet room.
The quiet did not last for long — there was a storm brewing in the form of the indignant lady of the house, who did not seem to like the feeling that she was now a prisoner in her own home, even if she was theoretically on the same side as the soldiers.
She had held her tongue in the attic, but within moments of arriving downstairs, the scowling woman lit into them with a torrent of words that Cole couldn’t understand, but considering that her eyes blazed with anger, the woman’s meaning was clear enough.
Cole and Vaccaro had a limited understanding of French. Like most GIs, they could pick out a word here and there after having been in France since D-Day. They had already discovered that Rupert spoke French and were surprised that Bauer was also able to communicate in that language. Adding to the mix, the girl spoke English with a heavy accent that made her even more endearing.
Based on his own experience with the French Resistance fighter Jolie Molyneaux, Cole knew that a girl could make the weather forecast sound like a love poem if she said it in a French accent.
Under different circumstances — perhaps an R & R dance arranged with some local girls in attendance — the three younger men would have been vying for her attention. But they now watched one another warily.
The daughter translated for everyone’s benefit. “My mother wishes to know, what is the meaning of this?” she said politely. Meanwhile, her mother was gesturing angrily at Cole and the others. “She says, ‘How dare you come into our home like this!’”
Because he was ostensibly in charge, Lieutenant Rupert turned to face her, doing his best to look official. “Madame,” he began calmly. “We apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused.”
“Inconvenience?” Through her daughter the woman made it plain that she scoffed at the lieutenant’s words. “This is an outrage! You have no right to invade our home!”
“We are just passing through,” Rupert explained. “We’ll be out of your house soon enough. Until then, I fear that we must ask you to remain in this room with us.”
Upon hearing what the lieutenant had to say, the woman’s face flushed red with indignation. Another stream of angry words followed.
“My mother says that she will not be held prisoner in her own home by a group of—” The daughter bit back the final word.
“Yes?” Lieutenant Rupert asked, a slight smile playing over his lips.
“Ruffians!” the girl finally exclaimed, reddening.
Cole reckoned that they had been called worse.
“Please assure your mother that we mean you no harm,” Rupert said to her. “We are simply trying to do our duty and protect your country.”
Again, the daughter translated, but it was plain to see that she was not satisfied.
“Mother says that she does not care about your duty!” the girl said. “She says that you have no right to treat us like this.”
“Miss, please inform your mother that we shall leave as soon as we can tomorrow morning. In fact, you might remind her that you’re better off having us here rather than the Germans.”
Once her daughter had translated these last words, all the fight drained out of the woman. Her indignation faded as the truth of Rupert’s statement sank in. She seemed to take in the tired and weary soldiers as if seeing them for the first time.
More words followed, but the matriarch’s tone had changed. She took command of the drawing room. Through her daughter, she began issuing orders like a general — there was no other way to describe it. She made it clear that this was her house and that the soldiers were interlopers or possibly guests (albeit socially inferior ones) who had wandered in out of the night, which indeed they had. Consequently, she had no qualms about putting them to work.
She pointed at the pile of wood, and then at the fire, indicating that it needed more logs piled upon it. Rupert was quick to do her bidding, and fresh logs sent crackling sparks up the chimney, and the warming flames rose higher. She oversaw the shifting of furniture to accommodate everyone in a rough half circle around the warm fire. Although French rushed from her lips, most of the commanding was accomplished by waving her hands at everyone in a manner that needed no translation.
Bauer seemed amused by the communication gap between the two Americans and their put-upon hostess.
“I have always found it curious that most of you Americans speak only English,” Bauer noted. “I don’t know if that is arrogance or your famous Yankee practicality.”
“Don’t go callin’ me a Yankee,” Cole warned. “That’s a downright insult where I’m from. Anyhow, there ain’t much need to speak French or German back home in Gashey’s Creek.”
Bauer cocked his head. “From what I hear, you barely speak English.”
Cole bristled at that remark. “Keep it up, Herr Barnstormer. The only one you’ll be talkin’ to shortly is Saint Peter at the pearly gates.”
Bauer shook his head, the familiar amused smile flashing. “I mean only that at times you are barely understandable to my ears because you have such a strong accent. Is that why your friend here calls you a hillbilly?”
“I’m a hillbilly and proud of it.”
Cole felt himself getting angry again at Bauer, but the heat faded when he saw that the German was giving him that wry grin of his — not a superior smile, but an impish one. Cole relaxed, realizing that the German was needling him. Busting his chops — and he had walked right into it like a blind mule into the side of a barn.
Cole shook his head. Reluctantly, he had to admit that Bauer had a sense of humor that matched his own. German or not, Bauer seemed to appreciate sarcasm and shared the same dark sense of humor as your typical GI. Maybe that style of humor was universal to soldiers everywhere, regardless of which side they were on.
The lady of the manor couldn’t seem to sit still, rushing around to light more candles. The daughter disappeared into the kitchen and returned with some cheese, a loaf of bread that had somehow escaped their search, a small knife, and a carving board. She also had a dampened cloth that she used to clean the dark smudges from her face.