A Troubled Peace by L. M. Elliott Page B

And yet the revolting truth was that it had been men, methodically moving from house to house, bent on the destruction of other human beings. Henry could imagine the cries, the pleas, the refusals, the machine-gun fire, flames catching hold of timber, houses collapsing.
    He crouched, hugging his knees to fight off vomiting. What should he do now? Who was left to help him find Pierre? Was Pierre alive to be found?
    From the distance came the faint sound of gears shifting and grinding, an engine backfiring from a charcoalconverter. Henry lifted his head. A small silver square of car was threading its way into the broken remains of Vassieux from the opposite side of the valley.
    Henry stood. Perhaps the driver would know something that could help him. He descended into the ruins.
    Â 
    Henry found the car parked alongside the field of crosses. A man had gotten out to stand among the graves. He was short, square, and solid like a bulldog, with gray hair and a thick black moustache. He held his brimmed beret in one hand, a crooked walking stick in the other. His hefty mountain boots, woolen pants, sweater-vest, and flannel shirt rolled up bare, muscular arms showed him to be a Vercors man. Henry felt a twinge of hope. This man had survived the German attack. That meant others must have, too. He trotted up shouting, not noticing that the man’s face was awash in tears.
    So startled, the man’s sorrow switched instantly to suspicion. “Qui êtes-vous?” he snapped. “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?”
    Henry faltered at the man’s belligerence. In stammering French, he explained he was looking for a boy.
    The man’s frown turned murderous. “You are American?” he growled.
    â€œYes, monsieur. ” Henry was thrilled—the man spoke English. Hopefully he would have the same reverence forFDR and be as helpful as the café owner. “I’m trying to find a boy, a boy who lived on a farm”—he turned away to point up the road—“about a mile up, near…”
    Henry didn’t see the hit coming. The first blow knocked him to the ground. The second strike of the walking stick split open the gash Lilly had sewn shut. The third exploded pain in his ribs. The fourth, he caught.
    Holding fast to the stick, Henry yanked the man down and jumped to his feet. But the Frenchman lunged at Henry’s knees, tackling him back to the dirt. Choking on dust, Henry wrestled the writhing man, trying to push him off. The man was strong. He kicked, punched, all the while snarling, “Why you not come? Why you not come?”
    Taking everything he had to roll the man over and off, Henry shoved and back-crawled. He staggered to his feet and held up his fists, just the way Clayton had taught him to box. “Come on. Now I’m ready for you.”
    But he wasn’t. The man was far faster than Henry anticipated. With a rush and a shoulder to Henry’s gut, the Frenchman knocked him to his knees again. Henry cried out in pain, feeling a horrible catch in his breath.
    â€œArrêtez! Arrêtez, patron! Nous avons eu assez de carnage!”
    His head spinning, vision blurred, Henry collapsed. Lying on the ground, he could make out another pair of feet running toward him, kicking up chalky ash. Soft hands sat him up and, for a moment, Henry could focus on thebabyish, pale face and the concerned voice of a second man who knelt beside him. “Pouvez-vous vous lever?”
    Could Henry stand? He tried and failed.
    Instead he felt himself pulled to his feet and walked to the shade of a burned-out house and lowered to lean against the wall. There was something familiar about this second man’s face. Something. But all Henry could focus on was the incomprehensible argument going on above him between the baby-faced man and Henry’s attacker.
    â€œC’est un d’eux! Ils ont permis le massacre de nos gens!”
    â€œCet homme n’est pas responsable de