Once an Eagle (39 page)

“Not at all. I really doubt it very much, however.” She glanced at his cane. “You have been wounded?” he nodded. “But you are wearing no—what my husband calls his kitchen battery …” She brushed her fingers lightly above her left breast.

“Oh. I'm not overly fond of wearing ribbons.”

“Really? Why is that?”

He stared at her a moment. “Because I think it's out of place. There aren't enough medals struck since the beginning of time to reward the bravery and suffering of the past four years. Many men have done courageous things that have never been rewarded, and bushel baskets full of medals have been handed out to staff officers for no reason other than favoritism or propinquity.”

“That is an interesting theory, I have never heard it advanced before. But surely courage under fire—”

“How can you assess courage precisely? Every man has something he's mortally afraid of, and there is no man living who won't finally break under pressure if it's cruel enough and incessant enough … So how can anybody but God decide who is worthy of a medal and who isn't?” He stopped and lowered his gaze, aware that his voice had risen.

“Well!” she exclaimed. “You are so—so—”

“So prejudiced about this,” he finished for her flatly. “Yes, I am. I've had some experience along these lines.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You
were
wounded, though? severely?”

“Severely enough for me.”

“Some of them cut their fingers opening a tin of corned beef and they need months to recuperate. And others smear their faces with vaseline and pretend they—”

He smiled grimly. “Not in my outfit, they don't.”

“Ah. You are very stern, then?”

He studied her again. It was hard to tell which way she would jump, this beautiful little countess. He could swear at certain moments she was kidding the very socks off him; yet her face remained attentive, congenial, brushed with that trace of sadness. Her voice held a soft, low vibrance that stirred him. If it were possible for a man to fall irretrievably in love inside of five minutes, he thought in blank amazement, I've done it. I've done exactly that …

“Oh, just average, I guess,” he said aloud. “No,” he amended, “I'm strict. In certain things. I don't care too much about what my boys do on their own, that's none of my business. But there are certain areas where you can't allow any fooling around.” He realized he was sounding pompous and stopped. Christ Almighty, he was prattling along like old George Verney! “I guess I should have introduced myself,” he said. “My name is Damon. Sam Damon.”

She started visibly at this: her eyes seemed to cloud over and then brighten curiously. “—Damon,” she stammered, “Damon—why, you're—you're one of the most decorated men in the whole American army …”

Now it was his turn to stare. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, why—” she floundered “—well you see my father is, that is he was attached to your division, as liaison officer …”

“But that would be Colonel Hénissart,” Damon began, “or Lefebvre, Captain—”

“No, it was early, my father was with the Americans earlier, then he was transferred. Before he was wounded. He was returned to his regiment.” She was gazing at him almost fearfully, her eyes darting. “I should not have kept you standing, Commandant,” she said. “Forgive me …”

“It's nothing, I need to exercise it—”

“And now I must go, I have an engagement, you must excuse me.”

“May I escort you—”

“No. That will not be necessary. It has been pleasant speaking with you, very pleasant.”

“I hope I may see you again,” he ventured.

“That is possible,” she breathed. She was consumed with impatience. “Au revoir, Commandant …”

“Au revoir, Madame.”

He watched her hurry away along the colonnade, the sunlight flashing in her lovely hair. Just his luck. And it had seemed so possible. So completely and naturally
inevitable
—the whole encounter. His mind riotous with romantic liaisons in gloomy chateaux, on gleaming yachts, at thés dansants on red-tiled terraces overlooking La Napoule, he sauntered back to the salon, where Krisler was sipping at a canary yellow drink as if it were nitroglycerine. He sat down beside him and motioned to a waiter. “What you got there, Ben?”

“They call it Pernod. I call it licorice.”

“That's for me.”

“You look as if you've netted yourself a thirty-pound bass. What's up?”

“I just had a strange little adventure. The funniest kind.” All of a sudden he felt quite exuberant, filled with mirth. “I ran into a French countess who's scared of me. What do you think of that?”

“I'd say she was using damned good sense.”

“Yes. So would I. The only trouble with that is she's afraid of me for the wrong reasons.” He leaned forward and tapped Krisler significantly on the wrist with two fingers. “What would be your reaction to an absolutely stunning highborn French chicken who knew all about the personnel of the old Wagon Wheel?”

“I'd say she was a sneaky Hun spy who hasn't found out the game's over.”

“So would I, buddy.” He sat back and sipped at the drink, which tasted like caraway seeds soaked in licorice, and slid fur over his front teeth. He was surprised to find that his leg had stopped throbbing completely. Why was that? The salon, the stuttering click of the roulette wheels, the silver laughter of the women, held him bemused. He had fallen asleep in a world of gray mud and convulsive horrors, and had wakened in a land of dreamy opulence and beauty, pierced with love … For he was in love: he never doubted it for an instant. It was the happiest moment he had ever known.

“Now why do you suppose,” he said aloud, “a beautiful French countess would sit up nights boning up on the TO of the old Wagon Wheel—and then run away from a nice, clean, innocent kid like me?”

“You have trench mouth,” Krisler said.

The two soldiers looked at each other and laughed uproariously.

 

And then two
days later—a cool, windy day with the waves beating in lustily from Isle Ste. Marguerite—he was pounding out his two-mile walk along La Croisette and saw ahead of him General Caldwell and two other officers—and the girl. There was that same quick, pleasurable pang under the heart: he increased his pace, though it hurt. Caldwell noticed him and the girl turned at the same moment, her face a quick flash of fright. He saw the strong resemblance in feature, the delicacy, the alert intelligence and grace, and said to himself, “Idiot!” He was shaking with inner laughter. He saluted the officers and said, “Good afternoon, General. Gentlemen.”

Caldwell broke off and shook hands left-handed. “Sam! God, it's good to see you on your feet again. I tried to call you last night but I can't for the life of me get anywhere over the phone in France. The minute you pick up the receiver they shift from French to rapid-fire Basque. Have you met my daughter Thomas?”

Damon brought forth his gravest smile. “No, I don't believe I have.”

“Tommy,” the General was saying, “this is Major Damon. You've heard me speak of him.”

“Of course. How do you do, Major,” she said sweetly.

“How do you do, Miss Caldwell.” Conscious of her eyes on him he turned to greet the other two officers—Lieutenant Colonel Forsythe of Division Artillery whom he knew, and a British full colonel named Evringham with a square, brick-red face and a heavy gray walrus mustache that looked as if it were pasted on.

“Sam's here on convalescent leave,” the General was saying to Evringham. “He was nothing less than my right arm when I had the Regiment.”

“Where were you wounded, Damon?” Evringham asked.

“At Mont Noir, Colonel.”

“Ah. Quite.” Evringham grimaced under the walrus mustache. “Good show.”

“Damon's real show was that amazing rear-guard exploit at Brigny,” Colonel Forsythe appended. “That was his big day.”

“Ah. Quite.”

“Oh, of course, you're the famous hero!” Tommy Caldwell cried. Her eyes were shining, and Damon knew she was going to pay him back. “You're the man with all the incredible medals. Why don't you wear them, Major? Poppa”—she turned to her father quickly—“why doesn't Major Damon wear all his incredible medals? Isn't he supposed to?”

“Yes,” Forsythe chimed in, “why aren't you wearing them, Damon? This is certainly the place to be wearing them.”

Damon smiled. “It's—more or less an oversight, sir.”

“I know why,” Tommy pursued brightly, “—he doesn't want to embarrass all the rest of you. Isn't that it? Or perhaps he feels self-conscious with them. Do you feel selfconscious about them, Major?”

“Now, Tommy,” General Caldwell said in a diffident, almost mournful tone.

Her eyes fluttered. “Have I said something wrong? something untoward?”

“Not at all, Miss Caldwell,” Damon heard himself say. “The fact is I've found them just too much of a burden to carry around: all that silver and bronze—it throws me off balance. Wouldn't you find it too much of a burden?”

“I wouldn't have had anything to do with them in the first place,” she declared. “I think it's a lot of silly tinsoldier nonsense.”

“Now, Tommy—”

“It's like those silly silver wigs the British judges and lawyers wear. Perfectly ridiculous.”

Colonel Evringham's cheeks shook with dismay; his eyes went a little out of focus. “Oh, I say,” he murmured.

Tommy Caldwell laughed merrily. “Ego bolsterers, pure and simple. What would you all do without your headdresses and shell necklaces? You know perfectly well you hand these trinkets around to each other like children at a marshmallow roast …”

“Oh, we all collect trophies, Miss Caldwell,” Damon broke in on her, smiling. “Wouldn't you say? But it's only our essential innocence that's at the bottom of it. We're just what we profess to be, no more and no less—you can read everything we are on our shoulders and over our hearts. What could be more artless than that? Whereas with ladies”—and he smiled at her meaningfully—“how is Machiavelli himself to read them? You encounter some utterly charming creature en promenade, say, she is dressed ravishingly and glittering with jewels, she makes the most entrancing allusions to ancestral chateaux and royal yachts and embassy receptions for three hundred eminent souls—but what is
she?
Echo answers. Is she a countess or a common adventurer?—or even worse? No, Miss Caldwell, you malign us poor soldiers …” He paused, shaking his head; she was gazing up at him, speechless, her lovely clear eyes wide with consternation. “How did one of Colonel Evringham's noblest monarchs woo his future bride in France?
Take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king: and what say'st thou, then, to my love?
”

“Bless my soul,” murmured Evringham. “Who's that?”

“Well, well,” George Caldwell said. “Well, well, well …” He was staring at Damon in delighted amazement. “Sam, that was trenchantly put, if I do say.”

“Oh, you
would,
” Tommy retorted, “you boys always stick together.”

“I wouldn't say Sam needed any help.” He eyed his daughter a moment, mischievously, then consulted his watch. “Sam,” he said abruptly, “I wonder if I could impose on you for a bit. Tommy has a few errands in the town and I wonder if you'd mind going along with her.”

“Poppa, Major Damon has no interest in tagging along—”

“I'm sure he wouldn't mind.” Over his daughter's head the General threw Damon one of his most significant glances. “Would you, Sam?”

“Not at all, sir. I'd be delighted.”

“Poppa, really—”

“Colonel Evringham's time here is limited and there are some things we need very much to talk about. Tell you what. We'll all meet at the Blue Bar at—four fifteen. Agreed?”

“It'll be my pleasure, sir,” Damon answered.

“And Tommy—”

“Yes, General?” she said with fearfully precise enunciation.

“Try and show Sam your sunny side.” He beamed at her slyly. “You do have one, you know …”

Damon took her arm and they moved off under the rusty green of the umbrella pines. He could feel her body stiffen when he touched her, and it delighted him. He wanted to roar with laughter, dance a jig on the seawall, tweak the nose of a frosty French grande dame with a lavender neckband and silver hair piled high. He hadn't felt like this in a long time, a terribly long time—perhaps never quite like this in all his young life. And most delicious of all was the fun of holding it all inside him where it trembled and flashed like mercury.

Idly he asked: “How long have you been in France, Miss Caldwell?”

“—All right,” she retorted. “All right. You're noble. You're Sir Percival in khaki and all the blinder-fluking rest of it.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Of course not. Soul of honor. God! You should have been an Eton boy.”

“Why's that?”

“You know perfectly well I've been changing bedpans for two years. You're impossible!” She seemed nearly ready to burst into tears. All at once she brightened and said: “Well. I fooled
you.
” She stopped short and glared at him hard. “Didn't I? Didn't I fool you?”

“Yes. You did. Almost completely.”

“What do you mean,
almost—!
”

Sententiously, as though reading from a regional guide, he declaimed: “The ancient abbey at Vezelay was the seat of the Knights Hospitallers since 1482. The façade was admirably restored by Viollet-le-Duc in 1887 and is one of the finest examples of Romanesque art in Burgundy. It may be visited weekdays from—”