Page Four
PROCONIAN
Thursday, January 25, 1945
MON PERE
(Continued from page one)
come home, for he had promised.
And Pere always kept his prom
ises.
Pere had joined the British
forces. They never had heard
from him again, and Maman had
given him up for lost. But Marie
had faith in his promise.
When Prance is free!
“He will come back soon!” she
prayed. “Now that the Allies are
expected any day. He will come
when the Invasion begins—with
the Americans, the British, and
the others. Oh, come back soon,
mon pere!”
^
Off in the distance the church
bells of Bayeux rang. “Four
o’clock,” thought Marie, “almost
time to get up.”
Jean was awake now. She
heard him coughing. He worked
so long out in the mist fishing,
going often in the night.
t- 'A-
Jean suddenly rose from his
bed, glanced at his watch, and,
pulling on his boots, left the cel
lar without a word.
“Jean!” Marie ran after him.
He turned around. “Jean, this is
the fourth morning now you’ve
been up an hour earlier. What is
it? What’s wrong?”
He said, “Marie—please. You’ll
soon know.” With that he hur
ried up the stairs.
She heard the front door of
the cottage bang. “You’ll soon
know!” echoed through her mind.
“What could he mean?” she
wondered.
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Pausing to pull up the twins’
blanket over their shoulders she
noticed their thin and drawn
little faces. They hadn’t been get
ting enough to eat. She’d havo
to go out and cut some greens
today. Perhaps she’d find some
wild strawberries. She clenched
her fist when she thought of the
Boches—how they had come and
taken the goat, their warm
clothes, and most of the food.
But she kissed the twins and
lay down on her cot. “It will be
time to get up in a while,” she
thought. “Another day! Oh, Pere,
please come home,” she whis
pered softly.
There were the poor little flow
ers she had picked in hopes that
her father would come. The fam
ily would decorate the table and
celebrate his birthday, though he
was not home—so they had done
for three years. They would still
cry, “Bonne Fete, mon Pere” to
the empty seat. Waiting, hoping,
listening—^for Pere.
% * *
Outside the little cellar it was
still and quiet. Only the distant
roar of the ocean—! There was
something humming in her ears.
Planes! An air raid!
She threw off the cover, sprang
lo her feet and ran to the door.
She peered over the sandbags
piled against the walls. Yes,
she could hear them. In a mo
ment the bombing would begin.
There! The searchlights were
criss-crossing the skies. The sick
ening screams of the bombs, the
crash and explosion began. The
machine guns of the planes were
spurting fire from above. The
big guns, manned by the Boches,
pounded them from below, and in
the distance she heard the cease
less waves break on the shore.
“Jean!” Marie gasped. “Where
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is Jean? He might be killed!”
The door clicked behind her.
She swung around . . . maybe—
Jean was standing in the door
way, muddy and smiling.
“Oh, Jean, where—?”
“It’s started, Marie!”
“What?”
“The Invasion!”
“The Invasion? Oh, Jean!”
She danced about him in an ecs-
tacy of joy.
“And you, Jean? You had
something to do with it, I know.”
“Yes. I set off a signal to guide
the planes.”
“Oh, Jean, hurry! Tell Ma
man. Wake the twins.”
And so they did. The whole
family cried and laughed for joy.
“Maman,” cried Marie. “Pere
will be here soon! Remember
what he said that night?—“I’ll
be home when France is free!”
Well, soon we will be free! There
—Listen! The troops are landing
on the beach!”
It was lighter now. She could
vaguely make out the landing
barges on the shores.
Pere would soon be here. She
knew he would. A strong feeling
that he was near possessed her.
Maybe he was coming up the
path right that moment.
She would be the first to greet
him. She would have to go out
side to see. Pere was coming.
How could she remain in the cel
lar?
Maman, Jean and the twins
were gathered around the door,
watching, their faces glad. She
quickly slipped up the cellar
stairs, ran through the kitchen
and through the door.
The salt sea air was cool on
her cheek as she stood on the
hill. The noise she did not hear.
The blinding flashes that illumi
nated her face she did not see.
The confusion and pandemonium
she did not notice. She only
stared into the mist, searching
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eagerly amongst the surge of
men—for Pere!
There! Looming out of the
mist, coming towards her, charg
ing up the hill, came one with a
familiar walk. She saw his face
and then, with tears of gladness
and laughter in her eyes, she
cried, “Mon Pere! Bonne Fete,
mon Pere!”
Swiftly down the hill she ran,
her arms outspread as if to em
brace him. Laughing, crying, the
hard, long, hungry years were
forgotten; the shooting and noise
around her were nothing. Joy
guided her feet over the stones.
Gladness overflowed her heart.
Pere, dear Pere was home at
last! Never again long heart
breaking days — Pere brought
sunshine with him.
Quicker, faster she ran, her
face exultant and beautiful with
joy, her long hair streaming be
hind her in the wind. Her lips
could shape only one word, “Mon
Pere!” she shouted.
But faster than her feet,
speeding, came death. And pierced
her small body—so tiny was the
bullet but so large the death!
And gasping with pain but happy
still, she lay at his feet.
He bent over her and she
threw her arms around him and
happily whispered, “Bonne Fete,
Mon Pere!”
She knew she was the first to
greet him, and so she died smil
ing. For he had come home at
last. Pere was home.
The American soldier laid the
child down gently on the sand,
turned to his buddy and said,
“Poor little kid. Must’ve thought
I was somebody else!”
His buddy, heedful of the
battle and danger of their hesi
tation, tugged at his sleeve and
dashed ahead along the sands. He
followed, but for a moment he
hesitated on the top of the hill,
looking down at the small body
lying on the beach below him.
“ ‘Bonne Fete!’ Wonder what
that means ? ‘Bonne Fete—’ ”
Then he was gone into the mist.
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