Time Share
In the Autumn of 2009, our generous neighbours, Anne and Mike, invited us to share a half-term break with them at their apartment in the French Alps. After flying to Grenoble, we found that Mike’s car (which lives there permanently) had suffered a flat tyre. A phone call to Axa brought an efficient, pleasant young man who soon got us mobile. This left Mike sworn to acquire the tools to equip him to do the job himself, should it ever recur.So our first morning found us driving down from Pelvoux to Vallouise for Mike to make good his intentions. After we had acquired provisions for the next few days, I decided to walk back via the track, alongside the river- alone since my wife, Valerie, was on lunch duty.I thought I might take some photos en route. It was a still day, misty,, damp, with no sun, but still bright enough to be pleasant. The gurgling, blue-water river, and the crags soaring so high, so close, especially since I was quite alone- not another living soul to be seen.
Strolling at my own pace, I completely lost all sense of time or distance. I noticed some tiny, red berries, which I first took to be the fruits of a large tree, but on going closer I realised they were borne on the stems of a bushy growth, which had merely used the tree for support. I was enchanted by these strange berries, which looked for all the world like tiny, deep pink drop pearls, though their skin, not pearly, was more downy, like a plum. I picked my way closer, over the gravel and scrubby grass which grew on the lip of the drop to the dry, rocky margin of the river bed. Of course, still being every bit as clumsy, awkward and careless, in my sixties, as my Grandmother used to tell me I was, in my teens, I stepped on a clump of turf which wasn’t there, and fell a couple of metres onto the rocks below. The process of different parts of my anatomy making independent contact with the stones, though lightning fast, did each register its separate pain quotient, but when my skull made contact, the world switched off.
Some indeterminate time later, I awoke, in considerable pain, and unable to move. I groaned and opened my eyes. I was back up on the track, in a little scrape, under the grassy bank. By my side equated a grizzled peasant, leather jacketed and beret-ed, straight out of ‘central casting’.
“Well English you’ve arrived and a sorry mess you’ve made of it. Two broken legs- we’ve seen to those- and a nice shiny egg over your eye”. I glanced at my legs and saw that they were bound with webbing straps over rough splints fashioned from split staves. I also became aware of the bandage on my dully throbbing brow. Why was I convinced that it was at the regulation jaunty angle, and that it sported the merest dab of carmine over my eye?
“Fortunately, you didn’t take your pack down the rocks with you, or there would’ve been nothing left to find!” He indicated a canvas back pack, opened to reveal three glass bottles, each swathed in cotton wool, each snug in its own plywood case. “Nitro, fuses, detonator- everything intact”.
I did a quick stock-take of the situation. This is a dream, I thought. Ever since my teens, I have been able, not always but often, to recognise a dream as such, then to sit back and enjoy it, like taking part in a film. Then if I get bored with it, or don’t like it, I can just switch off, or stop it by pushing myself into danger- such as throw myself off a high place, let someone shoot me, or jump under a truck. This brings a sensation like rushing wind, breath-taking, coming up from my feet, and when its restrictive embrace reaches my chest, I shoot into consciousness, like a cork out of a pop gun. I could also observe that, when awake, I own to 67 yrs of age, but when asleep, my toll of years is indeterminate- elastic- accommodating, shall we say. I might even further observe that, awake, on conversing with a young person, to my mind I am merely engaging someone in conversation, whereas they probably feel they are just being polite to an old man. Yet again, this may be an observation too far- superfluous to current requirements.
So- a film, I thought. Okay. It looks interesting. We’ll let it run.
“I’m Gaston”, said Grizzly. Yes, I would have cast you as a Gaston. Couldn’t be anything else. “Who are you?” he asked, glancing ruefully at my legs. I replied-
“Joe Soap”.
“Suit yourself”. He saw me glance again at the knapsack. “They tell me you’re an expert
With explosives” .Eek! What the hell do I say?
“Not on these legs, I’m not”.
“Well you just say where you want it, and my boy can set it up for you. We needed your
goods but we didn’t need you”.
“I’m pleased to hear it”, I said. I decided to take a chance- “Anyway, nobody’s told me who or what needs blowing up”.
“Goering!” Sacred Bloo! This is a bloody good film!
“Hold up! Hold the phone! What’s Goering doing in the French Alps? Doesn’t he know there’s a war on?” I never thought I’d get to say that. Well you wouldn’t, would you ?
“He’s been in Vichy, soft soaping Petain into shipping out more Jews, then he decided he’d like a couple of days ski-ing, so he’s spending tonight in Vallouise, and he’ll be motoring up here in the morning”.
“Why on this track, and not on the road above?”
“There is no road above”. Too late, I remembered Mike telling me the top road was a later development. By now it was quite dark. Gaston produced a couple of blankets and said
“Someone will be along with some food at some time, if we’re lucky, and if we’re very lucky it will be hot, but meanwhile, we ought to get some sleep, if we can”. He threw one blanket over me, and rolled himself up in the other, and in seconds, he was softly but definitely snoring!
Well, this is a turn-up. I’m asleep, dreaming, and this guy expects me to go to sleep? That could complicate things. I think I’ll just look at the stars, and hope this grub turns up.
And sure enough it did. A young girl (wouldn’t you know it) came from higher up the track, maybe an hour later, with a basket which she left with Gaston, without a word. We were then joined by Gaston’s ‘boy’ Georges, 20’s, medium height, wiry, not a lot to say for himself. From the basket, we ate a substantial meal of sliced ham, bread, cheese and apples, washed down with a flask of hot, sweet tea. Then Georges disappeared to wherever he came from, and Gaston recommended more sleep.
Unfortunately I realised that I was well overdue for a pee, which necessitated Gaston man-handling me into a standing position, and lugging me a little way from our ‘camp site’. I say ‘unfortunately’ because for me it was bloody painful! Gaston wasn’t very pleased but sod him! Then we had to go through all the palaver of getting me back into my little rut, by which time, I was wondering whether I ought to be seriously considering pulling the plug on this little Adventure in Winkyland. I lay for a while, considering the pro’s and con’s; I suppose that you could say that I actually was dozing. It was certainly one of those situations where more time slips by than you are aware of.
Anyway the next point of reference was still in darkness, still night, when we were aroused by the arrival of a young boy. He came slithering in a sort of controlled fall down the rocky bank, from above us, all breathless, but blathering non-stop. Gaston gathered him into his embrace, and calmed him enough to relate his news in a coherent fashion, and it was not good.
“Message from Henri Claude- It’s all up! They know you’re here!”
“How do they know? And how much?” This was from Gaston.
“Etienne, the blacksmith’s boy? He told them everything!”
“The one whose parents were on one of the transports?”
“And his grandparents, all because one of their parents had been a Jew. So Etienne had made enquiries and some ‘official’, probably a Nazi plant, had lead him on with suggestions of favours for favours, and you can imagine the rest. The result was that he was told they would be returned for one last favour. Poor Etienne took the bait. Then when he asked when his parents and grandparents would be home, the official said ‘They are here’ and produced a cigar box”. The lad’s resolve finally failed, and he turned away to hide his tears.
“I know” said Gaston, gathering the boy into his arms again. “Ashes. He’s not the first to fall for that trick. We mustn’t be too hard on him”. The boy gave a great sigh’, composed himself, then speaking slowly as if to maintain his composure-
“It's too late. Etienne went straight to Henri Claude, told him everything, then went to the forge”. We all waited in silence for what we feared- knew must come. “Henri Claude called for me and told me what to do, then said he was going to the forge. I begged to go with him. We found… I tried to hold Etienne while Henri Claude cut the rope, but we were too late”.
Gaston gave him a moment, then gently brought the lad back to the present with-
“Armand, you must tell me about the Bosch. What are they doing?”
“They are putting machine guns on the footbridge, up at Pelvoux, and there’s a patrol strung out above, on this side. I saw them on the way down, but they didn’t see me. Then at first light, they will be running a truck-load up here to run you onto the guns. You have two, three hours at most”.
“What about Goering?”
“The Pig is already half way to his plane at Grenoble”.
“Off you go now, carefully”, said Gaston.
“I’ll be okay. I’ve got a fresh-killed rabbit up there. If I’m questioned, I’ve been poaching at worse”. With that, the boy set off up the bank.
Now things were definitely changing gear. This dream started off as a Boys’ own adventurous romp, but its getting more like Hammer House of Horror, and I’m not sure I want to stay with it. The trouble is, if I bail out now, I know I’ll feel like a wimp, a traitor, even. I know these guys are straight out of ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’, but this is no Hemingway tale; its not even the right war. I’ve read Hemingway, which is good because it means I don’t have to read the bloody thing again. Okay- let’s just calm down here. I’ve got a way out if I want it. I’ll give it a bit longer.
After the boy had gone, we were quiet for a while, then Georges asked-
“What do we do now? We can’t go either up or down. We can’t even follow the boy. We can’t just melt, the way he will”.
“We go up there”, replied Gaston, indicating the cliffs, rising a hundred metres on the far side of the river.
“And what do we do with him?” Him being me.
“We carry him”.
“You’re crazy! Even if we had the time to lug him to the top, there’s still the chimney! You’d never get him up there without hacking his kegs off!”
May I say something?” I asked, quietly. “Gaston tells me you’re able to set the explosives, so you do that, and leave me here. I’ll see that you aren’t disturbed”. I could put on the full John Mills now I’d remembered my ‘Get-out-of-jail-free’ card- my ‘Wake-up’ escape clause. Georges wasn’t very impressed, though-
“If you stay here, you’ll either blow yourself up, or the Bosch will chew you up!”
“Well either way it’ll be a bloody sight quicker and less painful than you humping me all the wat to the top of that bloody alp for me to come bouncing and screaming all the way back down again!” I’d soon dropped from John Mills to Michael Caine, but fair’s fair- they hadn’t given me much rehearsal time. After some Gallic histrionics, they agreed. So I celebrated with another pee (not before time) which brought them both down to earth, by which I mean, any hot air they might have left over, was directed at me, and not at each other. Then we got down to business. This was better; I was enjoying myself again.
I told Georges where to set the three charges, in the bank, starting just short of a large tree which stood on the back edge of the track. So as the truck left the tree’s shadow, I would have its position to the inch, and ‘kerPOW-WOW-WOW!’
Georges went about his business, while Gaston helped manoeuvre me into a better view of the ultimate proceedings. Georges eventually reappeared, paying out wire as he came, to where the plunger- detonator-wotsit was carefully and firmly wedged by my side, and finally connected.
Gaston came and stood beside me, looking rather awkward, I thought. What the hell does he want? He’s leaving me his gun- automatic- machine gun-thing!
“I suppose you know how to use this.” I know the nice end from the nasty end, and I know that somewhere in between is a little bit you squeeze to do the business, but if any maintenance crops up, it’ll have to be referred back to the manufacturers.
I gave him my Roger Moore ‘quizzical’ look for an answer, and he just shrugged. They each solemnly shook my hand, and left without another word. I wanted to call out to them- something like ‘Don’t worry about me- I’m asbestos- Nothing can hurt me!’ but what could I have said that would have made sense to them? In a silly way, I felt responsible for them, but how do you tell someone ‘You aren’t real; you’re only a shadow in my dreams’? That’s not how you tell someone that you feel responsible for them. I tell you- I just felt rotten- bloody awful, and knowing that my whole concern was just ridiculous, simply made me feel worse, as I watched them drop down the river bank, and out of sight.
Moments later, though the light was only just starting to show in the sky, I saw them quite clearly against the pale rocks, picking their way to the water’s edge. I gave an involuntary wince of sympathy when I saw the water level reach their pockets, and later gave a sigh of relief, as they scrambled out at the other side, to disappear into the belt of scrub and trees. I waited impatiently for them to re-appear, as they started to climb up the crags. After an eternity, they closed within eight or ten metres of the rim, and I saw Gaston turn to wave a salute, then they both vanished. I realised this must be the chimney.
I also realised that the light was now quite bright. Though there was no evidence of direct sunlight it must be damn’ close, and so must the lorry-load of Meanies. Right on cue, the rumble of an internal combustion engine started to distinguish itself from the throaty chuckle of the racing river waters. I had just settled down to mull over the pissabolities of background music- No! Not that! Not Indiana Jonah! What about ‘the Great Escape’? No! I’ve got it. How about this for class- Edith Piaf- ‘Rien’!
I’d hardly started the intro- ‘BRUM! bururum. bururum. bururum. buruRUM!’- when a handful of stones rattled about me. I glanced up to see a ‘Corporal Schultz’- type just losing his footing (the sneaky bugger had seen me and started to creep down on me) and started scrabbling, flailing, and falling down onto me from about ten metres above.
It’s time I wasn’t here, I thought, and stretched out my hand to heave and manoeuvre myself- well anywhere out of Schultz’ flight path. Concentrating on hauling myself up, as quickly as possible, I managed to whack my hand down- on the detonator-plunger- wotnot! I whipped my head round, just in time to see the three humps bulging up out of the rock face, at 45°, between me and the approaching truck, as it emerged from the tree shade- spot on! It was a shame that good old Georges had not quite understood my intentions, because instead of putting the three charges in a concentrated bunch, he had spaced them out, up the track. So while the truck-load of Baddies was nicely embraced by the first two, I was sitting on the coat tails of the third. As it rose and spread, the WHUMPH! Lashed out right underneath me, and that’s when the projection room blacked out, as it were. The film split, the sound cut out, and everything stopped.
Like a bubble of heavy gas disturbing the surface of a muddy dyke, a thought rose in my mind. I shouldn’t be here. I knew I should already be feeling the familiar rushing wind sensation shooting up my legs and squeezing me into consciousness, and it wasn’t there. The surface was broken by another bubble- My system has failed me. No more bubbles.
I felt neither awake nor asleep. After a time, I began to discern a sort of ‘white noise’ coming and going at random. Then there was added a visual sensation- an oscillating between TV ‘snow’ and blackout.
This state of affairs seemed to last for an interminable length of time, but in fact, I deduced later, it was about 24hrs. Eventually the white noise resolved into speech- unintelligible, but definitely the human tongue, and the snow cleared just enough to reveal a human face, close up, speaking incomprehensibly, at first. Finally the face became my wife, Valerie, and the words became “My Love. Are you awake?”
And I was. I was out of the woods.
That should have been it but for the long recovery, and the explanations. I said nothing. The general conclusion was that I had moved too close to the edge, and slipped. Simple.
I learned that when I turned up missing, well after lunch, Valerie, Anne and Mike had scoured the track until dark, then had alerted the authorities, and I had been found around mid-day of the next day. I was found sprawled on a rock, by the water’s edge, with two broken legs, and a fine collection of cuts and bruises, but no more serious damage.
Yes, that was it, for twelve months, until this week, when we are once again the guests of Anne and Mike. Again, this morning, our first shopping trip took us walking down the track, by the river, to Vallouise. On the way back, Mike and I were well in front, the girls’ progress being much handicapped by gossiping. At some point, Mike turned to check the girls’ progress; they were well behind. Then, taking my arm, he said-
“I want to show you something” and lead me to a large tree at the river side of the track.
“This is where you fell”, he said.
“So this is where they found me”. I looked down on the rubble, below.
“No. That’s where they found you”. He was pointing out, across the rocks, to a large, flattish boulder, at the waters’ edge.
“Out there?” I asked in some surprise.
“Yes, and that’s not all. Your broken legs had already been roughly but efficiently re-set, splinted and strapped”. I looked at him, not knowing whether to say anything.
“Just one more thing” he said, and turned to a break in the bank. “We have to climb down here if you can”.
“I’ll manage”. As we negotiated the rubble, he said-
“Until the early 50’s the track came round this side, between the river bed and the tree, but there was quite a weak stretch which had been repeatedly repaired, but with limited success. Eventually they abandoned this stretch to the river, and cut and laid a new length of track, behind the tree, where it goes now. However, before that, at some time, this stone had been set between this tree and the old track”. He indicated a stone about the size of a car tyre.
The face of the stone had been smoothed, as had all the rocks, by the action of the water, over the passage of time. The parallel veins of a white, crystalline nature, were standing slightly proud of the softer, grey, calcious general body of the stone. Using these white lines, for all the world like the lines in an exercise book, someone had incised the words-
IN MEMORY OF
A BRITISH SOLDIER
WHO DIED FOR
FRENCH LIBERTY