Frenchie

Love and Bullets

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Perched dirty and exhausted on a pile of building rubble, the remnants of someone's home, she watched unmoved a post war deal going down on the far side of the street. A soldier of unknown nationality offered bread to a starving German housewife of about forty for the sexual comfort she could offer. She drove a hard bargain with the energetic use of gestures, the price rising to a loaf and a half, all the soldier packed that day. Then deal done and with no effort expended to conceal their desperation he dropped his pants and she raised her skirt.

To the witness's left and partially obscured lay yet another Nazi soldier, except that one was the reason for Frenchie being where she was, in the centre of Berlin.

After weeks of shelling a weird silence had settled on the city. There were comings and goings in the devastated residential area, where Hitler's lunatic fringe of zealots had literally fought to the last man or bullet. Frenchie assumed the civilian across the road showing some signs of pleasure survived in one of the many basements as the upper structures stood like broken stumps ghostly and grey.

Dressed in a mix of military and civilian clothing, she wore the French beret defiantly. Her shirt was Russian, combat trousers American, and a coat of worsted brown one size too big indicated the weight she had lost in recent months.

On her lap lay a Mauser Karabiner 98k rifle with Zeiss Zielacht x8 telescopic sight, the weapon plucked from the failing arms of a German sniper. Ammunition had been plentiful as she followed the American army from Reims to the German capital, the 7.92mm cartridge standard to most Wehrmacht rifles.

An AFN (American Forces Network News) jeep pulled up a few yards away, a young captain jumping out and approaching Frenchie. "Excuse me young man, sprichst du Englisch." he began.

Frenchie took the dust grimed beret from her head and let a mass of filthy blonde curls free. "Non. Mais je parle français. Aber ich kann in der Sprache des faschistischen bastards chatten, wenn Sie woollen." (But I can chat in the fascist bastard's language if you like.)

The captain looked closer, entrancing bemused pale blue eyes returning his gaze. (He later maintained that that was when he fell for the girl.)

"You're French! And you're a girl! And perhaps not all Germans are fascist bastards."

"Oui. Very clever of you," the woman replied in English. "And so far they are."

"What's an armed French girl doing in Berlin? Don't you know it's now Russian controlled?"

Frenchie pointed at the Nazi partly obscured by a pile of debris.

"The German?"

"Oui. My road ends here."

"Why him?"

"Long story."

"Would you like some mess grub and tell me about it?" He studied the devastated landscape. "You really can't stay here."

She shrugged. "I've slept in a ditch and on the branch of a tree. I've shared a broken down tank with two wounded Englishmen. And I fought with the Red Army when you Yanks stalled short of Berlin. I can survive anything, anywhere."

She continued. "Though I would like a hot bath and some clean clothes."

The captain pulled a face. "Hmm. Yes you're a bit strong."

"Mess food first. While I sort that bath. Unfortunately tubs are mostly requisitioned by men around here."

Frenchie smiled. "I don't mind sharing. It's been a long and lonesome road, Reims to here."

"Reims? France? What's your name?"

"Frenchie."

"Frenchie? Is that it? No surname?"

The woman had developed a toughened edge, one that most cared not to press too hard. Her look was enough.

"Ah," he sighed. "That's it eh? Hello Frenchie. From Reims."

"Bonjour."

"I want your story. All America needs your story. I will find you the best still standing hotel in Germany, where you can bath and eat. For your story. Yes?"

"It really is not that interesting," she told him.

"I want it. My Colonel will want it and America will want it."

"If you insist. But there is some I will never tell you. I will never tell anyone. So when I say enough it will be enough. Comprenez vous?"

The captain's aide came back from the Nazi body. "You really didn't like that one did you?"

Frenchie spat in the dirt.

He grimaced as he explained to the captain. "I reckon she played with him for quite some time."

"No play!" Frenchie snapped. "It was what the scum deserved."

"You tracked him from Reims?" the captain asked astonished.

"Oui."

"You followed the battlefront from northern France?

"I was part of the front. From Metz certainement"

"How did you keep on his tail?"

"Luck and God's will and the Russian First Ukranian."

"You can tell me about all three. What about him, if we go now?" He pointed at the Nazi officer.

"It's done. Let the crows have him."

"Can we have some photos first? Of you sat there like when we arrived. With the beret and holding that rifle?"

"For a pack of American cigs? Oui?"