Lavalle kept silent just long enough to express his contempt.
“Of course, Sir. Oui, Mon Général.”
It was one of the pointless exchanges that they had all become used to.
Plummer coughed, drawing Molyneux’s attention to another matter.
“Yes, I know.”
Unhappy at the interruption, the Corps Commander took a studied sip of his tea before continuing.
“The latest wave of reinforcements from Sassy will be redirected to meet up with you in your new positions. Given the recent problems with spying, I hold each of your responsible for the men under your command.”
Finishing the last of his tea, he waved a dismissive hand.
“Now, get back to your units and discharge your orders, and I will not tolerate any delays,” he looked directly at St.Clair, “Or lateness.”
“What a prick.”
Knocke kept his response minimal.
“I can only agree, General.”
Others murmured their agreement with Pierce’s opinion of Molyneux.
Far from being dismissive of Pierce and his men, the veteran SS and French officers had come to understand what a fine fighting force the man had constructed out of a savaged and beaten unit. The 16th US Armored Brigade was a formation that would do its job, and do it damned well.
Knocke spoke for all of them.
“We will miss you and your men, General Pierce.”
Pierce smiled at a man who had once been his enemy.
“And we’ll miss fighting alongside you and yours, General Knocke.”
The US Officer looked at the assembly.
“We’ll miss all of you. It’s been a privilege to be part of this command.”
The group responded with similar comments.
Knocke held up his hand.
“Before our illustrious leader decides to have another fit, I suggest that we get on with the job in hand.”
They all laughed.
“General Pierce, it has been an honour, Sir.”
Pierce grasped the proffered hand.
“That it has, General Knocke.”
Each one in turn shook the American’s hand and exchanged soldier’s farewells, until only Lavalle remained.
“Whilst I remember it, General, you hang on to my boys until you’re up to speed on the vehicles and weapons, then send ’em on back.”
Even in the heat of the moment, Pierce had remembered the training group he had sent to the Legion to help familiarise them with US equipment.
“Thank you, Général, I’ll get them back to you as soon as possible.”
Taking Pierce’s hand, Lavalle’s French emotions nearly got the better of him, for he had come to rely on and trust the gruff US General.
“It has been a privilege to command you in battle, my friend, and I hope you and your men will, someday soon, return home to the peace you deserve.”
Pierce smiled, understanding Lavalle’s difficulty.
“So do I, General, and I hope that for both of us… for all of us.”
They came to attention and snapped off immaculate salutes, Lavalle letting Pierce leave the building first.
They would never meet again, and Lavalle and Pierce would find ‘peace’ in very different ways.
The Legion Corps D’Assaut was moving north, like most of the French Army in Europe.
They were to be the left flank of de Lattre’s First French Army, directly on the right flank of the German Republican Army…
…in the Ardennes.
“Colonel! Skata! Will you wake up, for the love of God!”
The Airborne Division had been brought up to strength with transferees and newly qualified paratroopers, and the leadership of the 101st had reported that the unit would be at its absolute peak when called into action again. The 501st Regiment had been training all day and night, and the exhausted troopers had taken to their beds, not to be roused before the mess hall was ready to receive them for dinner.
At least, that was the order issued by Colonel Marion Crisp, which order was now well and truly broken by the insistent shaking of his Greek-American executive officer, Major Constantine Galkin.
“What the f… where’s the goddamned fire, Con?”
Taking a respectful step backwards, Galkin allowed his commander to compose himself.
“Sorry, Chief, but I couldn’t let ya sleep.”
Wiping the muck from his eyes, Crisp sat up, and gestured towards the ever-present pot.
“Coffee.”
Crisp was never a morning person, not that it was actually morning; he always valued his sleep.
Galkin poured two mugs and passed one to the slowly surfacing Crisp.
Downing the scalding liquid and willing himself into consciousness, Crisp flipped himself vertical and let his feet touch the cold floor.
“Fire away, Con.”
“General’s orders. Senior Officer’s meeting at headquarters at 1700 hours.”
Crisp groaned as he looked at his watch, now realising that he was being parted from his bed after less than three hours of sleep.
“OK, fair enough. Any clues on why?”
“We’re on.”
Crisp’s mind was suddenly alert and fully concentrated.
“Say again?”
“Orders came through. They’ve handed us a bitch and… leastways from what my spies tell me… it’s a bitch we get to ride in ten days’ time.”
Crisp did the maths quickly
‘Ten days… err… today’s the 16th… Saturday… so we’re talking Tuesday 26th March.’
“That ain’t a whole heap of time, now is it!”
Galkin finished his coffee.
“Guess that’s why the General’s getting everything sorted straight away. I’ll have your driver ready for 1600.”
Conscious that his commander had not appreciated his nakedness, Galkin beat a hasty retreat.
“I’ll leave you to it, Colonel.”
Running his fingers through matted hair, Crisp took a few deep breaths.
‘Shit!’
The 101st was going back to war again.
Major Jocelyn Presley was less than happy with the discovery.
A large number of personal effects had accumulated in the loft space above the sluice.
The Sergeant and Corporal who had started placing them in the roof space did so for the right reasons, but simply forgot to tell anyone of their actions. She was satisfied that there was no dishonest intent on their part.
Having tracked down those responsible and halted the activity, she was now faced with sorting through the effects and ensuring their proper distribution.
After taking a break and recharging her caffeine levels, Presley returned to her cataloging and labeling.
Moving a bundled greatcoat, she found a small canvas duffle bag with a card label attached.
‘Ramsey.’
She remembered the British officer fondly, and immediately reminded herself to take his wife up on the offer of afternoon tea.
Removing the contents of the bag, nothing of huge significance met her eye.
A garish tassled hat with red and white squares on was first to fall under her eye. Presley would not have known a Glengarry bonnet by name, but she set it aside, secretly admiring the traditional Scottish headgear. Following quickly came a brown corduroy flat hat, which she greeted with less enthusiasm, a lighter, a pristine copy of Ronald Syme’s ‘The Roman Revolution’, and a uniform jacket that gave the impression of having been through a hedge backwards.
Intending to wash the jacket, Presley pulled it out and unfolded it, immediately understanding that Ramsey had been wearing it at the time of his last battle.