Previously: A young French girl came to the Le’s Liaison unit in Cherbourg France to apply for a job as an interpreter. After the interview, she asked for a ride home and got to choose who drove her. She chose Le. At her home, she talked Le into walking up a mountain path with her.



We arrived at a natural overlook where she said, “Let’s lie down. We have the whole mountain to ourselves.”

We lay down on the grass facing the town and harbor, but she kept her back to me. I tried talking to her about the view, but she did not respond. She seemed tense and kept her face down.

Not knowing what the problem with her was, I turned and looked back at the path. That’s when I noticed someone hiding behind a small shrub.

Evidently, he thought he was concealed and was looking at us. He appeared to be about my size.

Her back still toward me, the girl remained silent. When I shook her gently, she did not respond.

It dawned on me that something was going on here that I should investigate. I was thankful to be armed and removed the Army-issue Colt .45 automatic from its holster, chambered a shell and aimed it at the shrub.

The guy surely saw the gun, but didn’t move.

I had no idea if he was a friend of the girl, French or even German. The town of Cherbourg was not entirely secured. German and French snipers were present and possibly German deserters, too.

My gut instinct told me I was a target. Someone wanted the Jeep, my clothes or both. I turned to the girl. “We’re leaving. Stand up.”

She stood and I shoved her in front of me. I kept close watch on the shrub and pointed the gun that direction as we walked. We retreated down the path we had climbed.

When we reached the Jeep I said, “I don’t know what you are trying to pull, but the Gendarmes and our MPs will be very interested.”

Arriving back at the office, some of the guys joked, “You must have taken the long way back!”

“Yeah. What took you so long?”

I knew good-looking Capt. Blakemore was also a nice guy. He would understand the situation and stand by me. He recently showed me a lot of marks on his back done by the wife of a local bistro owner. I had said, “You really need to go to the Aid Station and get those fingernail scratches treated!”

However, the more I thought about a full investigation into the girl’s home, the mountain and potential hiding German deserters, I considered something else. I had been away from the office quite a long time. That could be a potential problem for me.

Since I had no evidence to support my role in the whole affair, I decided to say nothing.

Le (Oct. ‘14) adds, “The girl never returned to our office.”

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