The Dumoulin Air Base rolled out the red carpet for us. A line of fifty crisp young men from the mighty United States Air Force stood to attention as a welcome guard and we were greeted by the commanding officer himself, Colonel Masson. Smart, sharp and smiling.
There is something about a large number of men in uniform that is immediately intimidating. They have the better of you without moving a muscle. In identical uniform, shoulder to shoulder, they are no longer individuals, but merge into one superhuman being. They belittle you. They reduce you. Even when standing there doing nothing except staring straight in front of them like wooden soldiers, you know – and they know – that they are a highly efficient killing force. And parked behind them are their highly efficient killing machines.
Only Mayor Durand with his impressive gold chain of office around his neck and Captain Léon Roussel in his authoritative dark uniform and braid could have stood toe to toe with them. There were more than a hundred of us, some I recognised, some were new to me. We had been herded into a large soulless reception room where we were presented with indifferent wine and what they called potato chips.
Our party was mainly male, of course – the president of the Chamber of Commerce, the heads of the major businesses, a number of landowners like Papa, and a big-bellied hotel owner. Among the few women present, all done up in their Sunday best, were the town’s well-respected chief librarian, as well as my old loud-voiced headmistress who oozed disapproval of the whole event and kept lifting her hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from her forehead as though the nearness of so much nuclear power made her nervous. And in a dress designed to have the military eyes out on stalks, Clarisse Favre. Léon had insisted she accompany me.
‘Papa will be with me,’ I’d pointed out. ‘He can be my guard dog.’
‘Your papa,’ Léon said in his best stern-policeman voice, ‘will have his eyes on the aeroplanes and his ears on the facts and figures. Not on you.’
I knew he was right. So here she was. Glued to my side. In a Chanel dress of moss-green linen, the exact colour of her eyes, skimming her slender hips. The plunging neckline was not disguised in any way by the addition of a tiny chiffon scarf at her neck. With her hair swept up in an elaborate knot she looked a million dollars, but this was not her usual style. When I asked her who she thought she was dressing for, she slid me a satisfied smile.
‘For the Americans, chérie. They’re men, aren’t they?’
I laughed. Usually she prided herself on dressing only to please herself.
It was odd. The way the mood in the room changed. On the arrival of the visitors I was conscious of an awkward suspicious edge to them that was not well hidden behind the polite smiles and handshakes. But the air base had rolled out its most personable officers to mingle with us and answer our questions, and there was something about these American airmen with their clean-cut faces and their can-do attitude. There was something that was . . . I struggled to put a word to it . . . that was inspiring.
Highly skilled. Highly trained. And passionate about what they were doing here. Saving the free world. A few of them spoke a little French but the CO had laid on interpreters to mingle with them. I could feel the hostility drain away like sand running through my fingers. Across the room I caught the eye of Major Joel Dirke and we exchanged smiles, but he was caught in the grip of a local chicken farmer who was looking irate. Maybe the overflying aircraft were disturbing his hens’ laying pattern. I’d heard one man claim the noise of the jets had made his dog so nervy it would not go boar-hunting anymore. What was Joel Dirke saying? That it’s all part of saving the world?
It was Léon my eyes sought out. Again and again, scanning the heads, but he had not arrived yet and I felt a stirring of concern. What police business had detained him?
‘Mr Caussade, I am pleased to see you came.’
Colonel Masson was standing in front of us, looking uncertain of his welcome. My father shook the CO’s hand but grunted his response in Provençal, which made me want to pour my wine over him.
‘I am Eloïse Caussade,’ I offered, ‘and this is my colleague from Paris, Mademoiselle Favre.’
He greeted us with military courtesy. ‘It’s good to see so many here,’ he said, looking around the room. He was half a head taller than most, with eyes that drilled into you, seeking out your weak spot. ‘I intend today, by the grace of God, to bring a spark of enlightenment to the subject of nuclear power and its force for doing the Lord’s work. To purge the land of the evil of Communism which seeks to rid the world of His churches.’
Ah. So it was personal. I found myself liking this man who believed in the godliness of America’s purpose in Europe.
‘I look forward to hearing more,’ I said. ‘That’s why we’re here.’ And before he could move on to the next group, I asked silkily, ‘Is it true that you are planning on flying nuclear-powered aircraft over here from America, even though it is still in the early stages of testing?’
His surprise was so fleeting, I barely saw it. His military training kicked in. He knew exactly how to deal with an ambush. Shoot it down.
‘Miss Caussade, you are mistaken.’
‘About the aircraft being powered by nuclear energy? Or about it coming to Dumoulin Air Base?’
‘Both.’
‘Colonel, there are rumours about this prototype aircraft that are coming out of this air base. It clearly means you have an Intelligence leak. Are you aware of it?’ I kept my voice low and private. ‘The local Communists are using this information as yet more propaganda to turn people against American interference in our country. Rumours like this add fuel to the Communist fire.’
My father watched the colonel. Clarisse watched me. But I looked past them. I looked across the room, past the smart military khaki uniforms and the freshly pressed suits to the ornate gold mayoral chain of office with the horned head of a taureau noir at its heart, the symbol of Serriac. Its wearer, Mayor Charles Durand, brandished a glass in one hand and a cigar in the other, a fine-looking man in his grand regalia. Around him stood an attentive group. One man was voicing his opinions with a dramatic dance of his hands, but the mayor was not listening. He was staring at me. Not casually. Not out of boredom. He was staring straight at me like one of the USAF’s anti-aircraft rockets. As if he would shoot me down.
A hand cupped my elbow. I looked round. It was Léon. Firmly he steered me away from the CO to a quiet corner and said, ‘I have news.’