Not quartering soldiers was a fundamental principal that America was built on during the Revolution. But one that Americans observed more in history than in practice now that more than 150 years had passed.
It wasn't that the French seemed to object to their saviours' making themselves at home in ranches and cottages across the countryside. In fact, some rather enjoyed it and almost never spoke -- even quietly -- of the fact that a similar triumphant privilege had been rolled out to the Germans only a few months before. They may have loathed the Germans but they'd have hated any foreigners in their countryside almost as much. But the French are proud survivors.
At least the Americans were out to kill krauts, the French had figured, not Frenchmen who happened to be jews, homosexuals or gypsies.
As Sgt. Heath Drecker of the 4th Mechanized Division enjoyed his lightly buttered roll at the home of one Gérard and his friendly and round wife Francine, he couldn't help but disbelieve his own damned luck.
He had come out of basic and then out of Fort Knox as a reinforcement to the 4th already months after the brutal invasion in June where the raucous failure of the modified "amphibious" Sherman tanks had drowned right off of their landing craft and left many a poor tank crew to perish, unarmed, on the bloody beach. And died as liberators -- as heroes. At least that's the way he had read about it in the newspaper in Tennessee. The men who had actually been there mostly looked like shit, now, and not at all like the victorious troops that you heard about in Roosevelt's "Fireside Chats".
It was mainly the infantry and the airborne who had won France, and only after it was all over did Sgt. Drecker's freshly-manufactured boots land on French soil and found that war was a much more pleasant experience than he had ever heard or imagined.
The wine, the girls and the cinemas in France were some of the nicest and friendliest that he had ever seen.
But what came down the stairwell, just then, was like a beautiful hangover to the frivolity of peace in France.
This hangover had a beautifully-proportioned body. Her legs stretched for miles just from the floor to the hem of her knee-length skirt and with slender-but-strong calves. Her eyes large and beautiful, if downcast. And her hair was cropped neatly only a couple of inches from her head. As a matter of fact, after three weeks into his tour without much care for his grooming, Heath dared imagine his own hair was longer than hers. Though she sported the hairstyle with a strange sexiness, Heath knew that this was not a common style among French women.
It was the neatly-trimmed growth that returned a few weeks after having her head shorn by the locals -- a cruel punishment reserved exclusively for girls who had all committed the same sin: fucking Nazis soldiers during the German occupation. And for once, Heath could empathize with a German boy who had seen such a creature.
"Sofie!" Barked her father. "Pourquoi avez-vous l'esprit ne m'a jamais?"
Heath didn't know any of what that meant but it sounded like an awful lot of American fathers he had met in his time. But 'Sofie' raised her chin in defiance as she proceeded to the icebox and removed a tall, ceramic jarafe of milk and then poured it.
"Parce que vous etes un fou stupide!" She responded. Even with only Freshman-year French, Heath knew what "stupide" was likely to be. Heath's eyes darted around the room. Francine averted her gaze and Gérard cursed under his breath as he scolded his daughter in French -- which Heath still had not learned a lick of.
"Merde!"
But Sofie only glared at her father and at Heath on her way out the front door with her milk in-hand.
"Idiots!" She threw the door against the wall with a slam.
Heath smiled to Francine, whose face was flush with humiliation. "She has eyes like yours." He complimented her with a raise of his wine.
But Francine only grumbled in French that Heath was certain to have been indiscernible to anyone. She rose, still cursing under her breath, as she stormed out to where the laundry was hung on the line.
---
The next night, after local patrols in his Sherman, Heath gave the crew the night off. As he generally did. A few returned to barracks. The rest went out for some more fun in the usual variety.
But Heath returned to the home of Gérard to answer the old man's broken-English invitation for a nice dinner. Now, Heath was known to turn down some invitations to fraternize with the natives. But free food was never one of them. Of course, there were other exceptions, too.
Before his knuckles could rap the door to the countryside cottage, he heard her.
"Vous etes ici pour prendre un autre coup d'oeil á moi?"
He turned slowly to find his hangover lagging around the corner of the cottage. Her voice was soft like velvet but with a tone that was coarse as burlap.
"I'm sorry?" Heath asked.
She signaled with her hands and repeated "Vous," she pointed at him, "se moquer," she mimicked laughter, holding her belly and pointing accusingly.
She finished with, "de moi?" and, instead of pointing at herself to refer to "moi", she ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair, leaving nothing to be guessed.
"No," Heath answered. "I'm not here to make fun of you. I was invited."
She didn't seem to understand him and furthermore, didn't seem to care, either.
"Je ne vous crois pas." She muttered without interpretation of any kind.
Heath stepped away from the door and shifted a little in his starched-clean uniform.
"Look," he began. "You," he pointed at her, "are beautiful" he made up some sign representing beautiful with his hand over his face. "Belle," he said, trying in vain to impress her with one of his few French words.
She scoffed. "Merde..."
"No," heath continued. "No bullshit."
She huffed and turned to stomp away.
"Wait!" He insisted.
She didn't, only continued to storm toward the barn where her father's cows were kept.
After only a brief pause, Heath couldn't stand the thought of her leaving, being mad at him. He followed her.
"Laissez moi tranquille!" she shouted. This one he knew. It meant leave me alone. It was one he was ashamed to admit he had heard from more than one French girl since he got there.
"Fine," he said, "just tell me this: what the hell am I supposed to think about you, anyway?"
"Quois?" she shouted angrily.
He didn't even bother speaking, only pointed at her, drew an unmistakable swastika in the air and subtly pumped the air with his hips.
She slapped him.
Heath looked around the dank and musty old barn as he shook his head, his face stinging harder than it ever had done before. "Fine. I suppose that you wouldn't talk about it, would you?"
He shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
"Parfait! Au revoir, lache!" She said with finality.
Now, as far as Heath knew, a "parfait" was a dessert he didn't really care for and "au revoir" was pretty self-explanatory. But "lache" -- that was the French word for "coward".
He turned back to her with anger burning in his eyes. "Now, you listen, here, you slutty little traitor -- I know you understand exactly what I'm saying to you when I say that you'd better mind your fucking manners with me."
"Or else what?" she shot back in heavily-accented English. But...in English!
He nodded in resolution. "So, you do understand me."
"I am not stupide whore as your other French girls friends!" she answered.
He nodded, "Well, if you're so damned smart, then why don't you tell me how you got that sexy little haircut?"
She cast her eyes away with a huff. "Non! You understand me not at all!"
He shook his head, "No, you're wrong about that. I get you just fine. You like to be with successful men. Men with power. I think I understand just fine."
She scowled at him. "Then you know why I can speak like you?"
He nodded, again, "You were sleeping with a German officer to gather intel for the British," He answered matter-of-factly.
