A Village in France ,'44

A Village in France '44

It is almost midnight and we are moving forward slowly, by the light of
stars and a thin silver moon. Our steel tracks rattle on the pave as we
creep along between the towering poplars towards the village. I am
sitting on the mud wing of the leading tank nursing my Sten gun and
watching the shadows. How far ahead is the enemy? Five miles? Five
yards? We are at the first houses now and pass slowly between them. The
crew-commander speaks softly into the intercom.
'Driver halt'. We stop-- and listen-- and watch. There is nothing. No
sound. No movement. The village is dead. The whole world is dead. Then
from the corner of my eye I see a hint of movement, a thickening of the
shadows. I turn my head and point my gun. A small figure steps
hesitantly out of a doorway, she is old and bent and dressed in black.
She steps up to the tank, lifts a hand to my sleeve, feels the material
gently between her fingers and whispers "Anglais!" A statement, not a
question, and there is that in her voice that tells of unspeakable
relief. Her long wait is over. She pats my arm and turns back into the
shadows.