There was a style and a poise in the way Sandrine stepped briskly through the shattered streets of Fampoux. It brought a colour and a light to the surroundings even as a sombre shade of night fell about it. She passed lines of soldiers marching out towards low trenches being dug and constructed at the eastern outskirts of the village, standard issue folding spades strapped to their backs. She could smell the sweat and gun oil from them as they passed. Several times she was called to “Halt” by a barking sentry, but each time she ignored the order, striding past with a flippant turn of her head. A grumbling, “Bloody Froggies,” or words to similar effect, were always levelled back at her, but the sentries clearly thought the woman not enough of a threat to their growing defences to follow up their shouts with bullets.
Once again the German guns had fallen quiet. No longer was there the distinct growl of artillery. A hesitant peace had come to the lands. After the hell of fighting and bombardment, to see the soldiers march past in formation or dig in their units at the harsh chalky land; it felt like watching a scene from a huge exercise, with just a darkening sky above, the smell of horse dung, sweat and hay all around.
The town hall had been badly damaged from an earlier onslaught, a direct hit decapitating the bell tower and bashing a great hole in one side of it. Pigeons now roosted in the ruins of what was once a finely carved stone rampart, taking startled flight whenever the shells fell again. Dust and stone littered the ground before the grey stone brick building. It broke Sandrine’s heart to see it as it was, the cobbled square before it cast light grey by fallen masonry and dust. The hall held so many great memories for her, of dances and fetes, of her first proper kiss.
There was a bored looking soldier at the door, resting against the lintel, a cigarette balanced precariously between his lips. He watched Sandrine studiously as she strode up, stepping into her path before she could reach out to the door.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sandrine cried, throwing her hands in the air. “This is my town hall.”
“Major’s headquarters now,” replied the sentry, dutifully. He gripped his rifle in his hands and measured himself against the woman, moving a little to the right to better block the way through.
“Piss on your Major!” hissed Sandrine, making to push him to one side.
The soldier swept Sandrine’s hands to the side with the body of the rifle and tried to usher her away. She was stronger than he expected and it was in fact he who found himself pushed aside. He lost his footing and stumbled over, down onto his knee. Sandrine was through the door and inside before he could reach back to grab her.
She pranced lightly over the wooden floor of the hall, long ruined by the endless trudging of military boots. At the far end of the hall, a set of sweeping staircases ran upwards either side of double doors. The rich pile carpet which had adorned the stairs had long since been ripped up and disposed of. With the soldier fast on her heels, Sandrine gambled on the lower doors and headed towards them, casting them wide. The balding figure behind the desk looked up and roared at the unexpected interruption.
“What is the meaning of …!”
And then the words were stripped from his throat the instant he recognised the woman before him.
“You!” Sandrine hissed, stuttering to a stop on the carpeted floor of his office.
The sentry caught hold of her roughly by the arm, and began to draw her away. “I’m so sorry sir,” he called apologetically, expecting any moment a torrent of abuse to be unleashed upon him by the Major. But Pewter’s face was a mix of surprise and cautious delight. His mouth hung partially open, his eyes burning into Sandrine.
“No, leave us, Ponting,” he ordered, gathering himself to his feet and stepping slowly around the desk. “Shut the door behind you please, as you leave.”
The sentry did as he was bid, bowing dutifully. Pewter stalked towards her, like a hunter approaching a triggered trap. She watched him with uncertainty, turning so that she always faced him, as if expecting a lunge or a killing blow from behind.
“Well, well,” Pewter smiled, showing teeth. He brushed back his wisps of hair and stepped close. Sandrine could smell his stale breath and took a step away but the Major’s hands were around her back in an instant, snatching her to him, his mouth to hers. She pushed him away and wiped his spittle from her lips, snarling at him, her eyes like fire.
“How dare you!” she hissed.
“How dare you walk out on me like that?!” he retorted, his tongue gently touching across his lips to taste her saliva. He gave an eyebrow a surreptitious little raise and sat back on his desk with an arrogant ease, feeling in his pockets for cigarettes. “You know, you shouldn’t have turned me down like that. Just as I was getting a little excited about the whole thing too. You really are quite a tease. And quite a delicious thing.” His eyes played over her body. “I’m certainly glad to see you again. Why on earth you chose Lieutenant Colonel Wood, I just do not know. You naughty thing. I’ve had women flogged for less.”
Sandrine spat at his feet. “I don’t care what you think!”
“Oh, but clearly you do. I mean, why else have you come back to me?” he asked, drawing out his packet of woodbines and placing one into his lips. “Realised your mistake have you?” He laughed, a high haughty laugh. “I must say you must be desperate, padding all the way across the British front, but I do agree that I am a bit of a catch.”
Sandrine seethed, her eyes thin and hostile.
“Oh, I see,” chuckled the Major, coldly, “this is just a happy chance, you turning up like this, is it?” he asked, his hands raised in mock question. “Cigarette, my dear?” Sandrine’s silent response gave him his answer. “Look!” he said, adopting a more conciliatory tone, “let’s not worry about what went on back in Arras, shall we?” He pushed himself forward, at which Sandrine immediately stepped back, expecting another assault. Pewter raised his hands in submission and stepped slowly to one side, circling about the woman, studying her as he went. She looked filthy and exhausted but he could still feel the urge grow within him at seeing her again, her natural beauty no war could ever diminish. “You played with me,” he went on, “really rather well, too, I’ll admit. But I survived and so did you. And here we are, once again. I say it’s a jolly good omen, don’t you?” He chortled manically. Sandrine glared at him.
“Be quiet you fool!” she shouted back, her body still taut, ready to spring aside if the Major tried anything. “I haven’t come to see you.”
“Of course not,” he replied, smugness filling his features, then suddenly saying, “my God! Your body is a gift!” He stood back to admire it, shaking his head with exaggerated wonder.
Sandrine gritted her teeth and shook off his nonsense. “I have come to warn you.”
“Warn me? Warn me of what, exactly?” replied Pewter, his face and manner darkening. “No one, particularly women, warns me about anything. I am my own man.”
“Keep your men indoors at night when in Fampoux.”
“Good heavens!” Pewter exclaimed, shaking his head and now laughing. “Are you in any way connected to Lieutenant Frost? The damned fool said exactly the same to me earlier!”
“I know Henry, yes.”
“Oh, it’s Henry is it? On first name terms, are we?” There was a jealous glint in the Major’s eyes. “My, you do get around. Lieutenant Colonel Wood one minute, Lieutenant Frost the next?” He leaned close to her. “I have bad news for you. You are going down the ranks, not up them.”
“You should listen to your Lieutenant. Keep your men indoors on a night in Fampoux!”
“And why exactly should I do that, pray tell?” he asked, sitting on the arm of an armchair and crossing his legs.
“The wolves,” Sandrine replied, coldly.
“The wolves?” replied Pewter doubtfully, with a smirk.
“The wolves of Fampoux. They are what defeated the Germans. The Germans were warned and they did not listen. Listen to me now,” Sandrine urged, coming forward a little into the centre of the carpet. “Do not let your men outside after dark.”
The Major sat back and looked at her blankly. He then started to laugh, a high forced mocking laugh. Sandrine crossed her arms and stared back at him.
“Very good!” he chortled, putting a cigarette between his lips and clapping. “Very good! I am most impressed!” He stood up and started walking again, his time in the opposite direction to which he had first surveyed the woman.
“I don’t understand what you have to be impressed about? You just have to do it. Give the order. Keep your men indoors and safe.”
But the Major was still laughing. “So, what are you? A German spy?”
“No!” Sandrine shot back.
“A German sympathiser?”
“How dare you! The Germans invaded my country, enslaved my people, ruined my village!”
“Yes, and took you as their little fuck puppet, no doubt?!” the Major cried, dropping his cigarette to the carpet and crushing it beneath his boot. “What did they do? Fuck you so well that they won you over to their side? I do suggest that you must have a delightful and eager cunt. Moist. Well worked. At least that was the impression I got from what you allowed me to feel.”
“You are sick!” Sandrine cried, turning and heading for the door.
“All lined up and fucked you, one by one, was that it? Worked you over to their side so that you’d be encouraged to spy for them? Eh?! Thought you’d get secrets from the Lieutenant Colonel, did you? Thought you’d try the Major next, did you?”
Sandrine threw the doors open. She turned back and stared at him in the doorway. “You are sending your men to their deaths! I have tried to warn you. I ask you one final time, keep them indoors.”
“No, I won’t oblige you with your request to remove my troops from my defensive trenches,” Pewter shouted after her, storming through to the entrance hall into which she had now gone. “No, I won’t give the Germans free passage back into the village I won from them. I am terribly sorry, German whore! Go and tell them that now. Tell them that I am waiting for them and we will give them a typically British hospitable welcome, when they come!”
Sandrine stopped before the main doors of the hall and turned around. She looked at the Major and then over his shoulder at the carpet in his office, before steering her eyes back to him. “I remember when that carpet was first laid down, laid down by my family twenty two years ago.” There were tears in Sandrine’s eyes, tears of rage. “I would prefer if you showed it a little more courtesy than to stamp your cigarettes out on it,” she warned, before turning and striding away.
“Silly bloody woman,” Pewter cursed, his eyes still trained on the open door. “Ponting!” he shouted. At once the sentry rushed through the open doors. “Go and pass orders to all the officers. Tell them they and their men are all to take sentry duty this evening. Tell them I have received intelligence of an imminent German attack. Tell them I expect all defences to be occupied and primed within twenty minutes. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” nodded Ponting.
“Good, now go.”
At once the young soldier tore out of the hall. Pewter watched him go from a window of the building. He looked out to the horizon. The moon was just beginning to rise silver and sleek above it. Somewhere in the darkness, a wolf howled.