BEER BURLOCKS AND WHISKEY CHASERS: RUMRUNNING ON LAKE CHAMPLAIN IN DEFIANCE OF PROHIBITION

By HARMON GRAVES

Prohibition drifts into northern Vermont like the thick fog that occasionally envelops its major waterway, Lake Champlain. It is recklessly disregarded, dividing the nation and its family units, but offers economic opportunity for Armand Dubuc, a veteran of WWI returning home, finding no work but willing to risk the dangers of rumrunning on this lucrative water route.

Armand pursues a love affair with Cosette, a comely French nurse who saved his life during the battle of Chateau-Thierry. His boating cunning eventually is overcome by the U.S. Boat Patrol—the Prohibition enforcement arm on the lake—and he faces prosecution in federal court. There with the skill of his lawyer, who himself has a challenging conflict within his own family over the 18th Amendment, Prohibition itself is put on trial, the jury is led to vote its conscience, which forces the judge—mired in his own misdeeds—to take action that shakes the fabric of the community. Justice in an unexpected way is ultimately served.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667882949

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Harmon S. Graves, III

1950 W. Littleton Blvd, Suite 113

Littleton, CO 80120

[e-mail]

Website: harmongravesauthor.com

© H.S. Graves 2023

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, other than to identified members of the author’s family is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-66788-293-2 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-66788294-9 (eBook)

To the early members of my family who founded their summer homes at Westerly on Grand Isle, Vermont. They were all story tellers who took the time to enjoy each other’s company and the last rays of the evening sun stretching across the quiet water of Lake Champlain—all celebrated in simple harmony of a song they knew so well:

Sing a song, a rich refrain,

And let echo swell the strain,

To our lake, our loved Champlain,

Lovely Lake Champlain.

Contents

Map of Lake Champlain

Prologue

1 Armand’s Decision

2 At War In France

3 On to Paris

4 Scars of War

5 Cosette’s Decision

6 Cara Rooney

7 Harvard v. Yale 1892

8 Graves Siblings at Keeler Bay

9 A Plan for Westerly

10 Lincoln Andrews’ Announcement

11 Jean’s Plan

12 Armand’s Rejection

13 Routes to Consider

14 Two Treats for Armand

15 Venise-en-Quebec

16 Juniper Island

17 Burlocks of Booze

18 Dutch Snyder’s Juggernaut

19 Historic Barricade Plan

20 Dutch Snyder’s Redesign

21 Flying Squad of Prosecutors

22 Dutch Snyder at Rouses Point

23 Death at the Barricade

24 Armand’s First Tour

25 Plattsburgh by Moonlight

26 Burlington: A Wet Delivery

27 Collection Made

28 Cosette at La Maison

29 Abenaki Legend

30 Quarter Moon and Quiet Water

31 Trouble at Nichols Point

32 Interception

33 Search for a Way Back

34 Middle Reef Storage

35 Going South to Get North

36 Incarceration and Charges

37 Jed Higgins Engagement

38 A Stunning Preliminary Hearing

39 An Agreed Seizure

40 Betrayal

41 Seizure at St. Jean

42 Many Pockets

43 Sparring on the Pavilion

44 Armand Implores

45 A Comical Boarding

46 The Molly Pitcher Club at Battery Park

47 Agent Conway Opens Many Pockets

48 A Good Bat to Swing

49 Jury Nullification Over French Wine

50 An Advisement to the Jury

51 Motion for Naught

52 A Hostage for Testimony

53 I’ll Do It

54 The First Amendment Attraction

55 Perils of Pamphleteering

56 Arraignment

57 The Challenge of Jury Selection

58 The Hostage’s Lamentations

59 Opening Statements

60 The Lead Witness

61 Mr. Germain Goes to Canada

62 Immunity Imbroglio

63 The Defense

64 The Exchange

65 Cosette’s Conundrum

66 Closing Arguments

67 Preliminary Deadlock

68 Judge Wheeling’s Dilemma

69 Exercise of the Only Option

70 The End of a Trying Day

71 A Decision Made Easy

72 The Order

73 A Plea for Resolution

74 Refocusing Prohibition Prosecutions

75 Thank You for Your Service

76 No Tolerance for Immunity Deals

Acknowledgments

Author’s Notes

About the Author

Illustration Credits

Map of Lake Champlain

Prologue

The Birth of a Lake

The Champlain Valley languishes between the Green Mountains to the east in Vermont and the Adirondacks to the west in New York. The sun appears anxious to rise over the Green Mountains, which are wet and cool with morning mist. Later, the sun will reluctantly descend below the foothills and peaks of the Adirondacks, each silhouetted in its own distinctive hue.

The birth of a lake does not happen quickly, and this bucolic scene provides only a hint of the 450-million-year-old history that formed it, when the Taconic Orogeny pushed what later became Maine into New Hampshire, which in turn smashed into Vermont creating the Green Mountains. Ancient shales, loaded with fossils of creatures that had roamed the earlier sea, were lifted up and over their younger cousins in a grand geologic thrust.

Millions of years later, New York, not to be outdone, spent its last geologic charge creating a massive dome of ancient rocks overlain with softer sediments that eroded into clefts and crests the heights of which challenged their neighbors to the east.

Then the earth’s orbit went wobbly causing a cooling of the earth’s surface and atmosphere. A glacier more than a mile thick formed in the valley between the two mountain ranges. Its weight depressed the valley floor. As it melted and moved northward, it rounded the sharp peaks of the mountains. Its evolving waters, which would become known as Lake Champlain, filled the valley floor, locked in place for eternity by the rebounding crust of earth freed from the burdens of ice.

Glacial waters warmed, lapped at the gray-shaled shores turning them nearly black. Moccasined feet trod quietly along these shores: the Iroquois and Mohawks to the west and the more peaceful Abenaki to the east. The Abenaki called it Hitawbagw, the Lake Between. The wakes of their canoes slicing through the quiet waters of its many coves barely made their way to the shores overhung with aging cedar branches.

In time, waters in shallow portions of the lake were churned by shifting winds. A sand bar slowly evolved on the east side of the lake’s largest island—later named Grand Isle—and extended its reach to the mainland. White-tailed deer, seeking refuge from the catamounts lurking in the mountains and forests, ventured across the partially submerged passage to the island’s protection of grasses, thickets, and cedars.

Elegant white-breasted osprey nested in the marshes on the east end of the sand bar. Their wooded nests perched precariously in the high branches of the spindly trees overlooking the quiet waters of their fishery. At sunrise, teams of cormorants would flee their nests among the cedared islands standing above the deeper portions of the lake searching for an easy catch near the surface. Later, they would dive deep to wrestle a reluctant spiny perch from the depths.

The valley’s climate has not changed since its first Native inhabitants occupied its fields, forests and waters. The main channel of the lake, reaching from the lower one-third of Vermont northward into Quebec, reluctantly surrenders its tranquility to the whoosh of northwest winds bearing up from Canada. When ultimately exhausted, the warmer southwest winds return creating gentle waves that reach upward and snatch rays of sun light as they roll forward—their crests surfacing then disappearing as if grasped by some gentle hand below.

When winter comes, it casts a cold hand over the surface of the lake, freezing it to a depth of two feet or so. A gray sky settles over the creaking ice, flexed up and down by the north winds. Then silence.

Only the hardiest settlers were willing to endure this climate of extremes and till the shallow layer of soil above the ancient shale.

Wars have bloodied its waters from time to time and the lake’s noble history was temporarily sullied as a waterway devoted to the transportation of booze during Prohibition. Yet the valley’s resiliency absorbed and smoothed over these intrusions, restoring peace, soft and clearing winds, and brilliant sunsets. It was not merely a body of water between two heralded mountain ranges as its Native inhabitants had called it. The lake was a generative force in those whose lives depended on it, as will be seen in the pages that follow.

1

Armand’s Decision

The stands of beautiful white pine on the Dubuc homestead east of Swanton, Vermont had supported the family comfortably until the lumber market began its decline in the early 1900s.

Armand and his brother Jean would help their father in the logging operations on most weekends and in the summer months, wielding a two-man cross cut saw from the time that they were husky enough to draw it through a felled tree. They liked the work, the tough talk of the small crew of lumberjacks—a phrase or two would slip into their conversations at home, drawing a quick rebuke from their mother.

Both were built alike—an inch or two short of six feet tall. Jean inherited the thick black hair of his French Canadian mother and, judging from the ease with which he flirted with his female high school classmates, he was the handsomer of the two. Armand, a little stockier, possessed the ruggedness of his father.

The boys were still in high school when word came. The assistant principal entered their classrooms, signaled to each that they were to follow her to the principal’s office. No explanation was provided as they strode quickly down the hallway. When reaching the office, the principal’s assistant slowly closed the door and turned to them.

Boys, your mother sent word to us a few moments ago that your father was injured…

They stood quietly, tense, their imaginations engaged for the worst.

No, she wanted me to say it—he has been killed—crushed by some logs while loading a logging wagon. Your mother needs you and I will drive you home. She paused. I’m so sorry but gather your strength and tend to her.

The assistant principal’s car had barely come to a stop in front of the Dubuc log residence before Armand and Jean burst from the car, thrust open the door, and ran into the main room that served as a living room, kitchen and dining room. Their mother was seated on the couch next to the large fireplace, her apron drawn to her face. She was sobbing uncontrollably. The boys sat next to her, offering awkward condolences—at least they were there. Armand looked over the top of his mother’s head, drawn to a photograph of his father proudly resting his arm on a wagon full of pine, the very wagon that had failed him today.

The assistant principal tapped lightly on the open door, and said to Mrs. Dubuc, I’ll help any way that I can. Send one of the boys at any time. She quietly closed the door. The sound of her departing car ushered in the loneliness that awaited them.

The graveside service was well attended. Many of the boys’ classmates were there—each respectfully depositing a handful of the excavated soil on the pine casket following the final reading. Armand and Jean steadied their mother as the ceremony ended and their friends slowly returned to their wagons and cars. Her breath was shallow, grief-ridden.

Next to the cemetery fence two heifers stared at the three, slowly grinding mouthfuls of hay, one flicking her ears to dislodge a fly. Smiles forced their way onto the boys’ teared faces. Life grinds on, they’d heard their father say.

Their mother lost weight and coughed constantly, gripping her chest, sometimes coughing up blood that she tried to hide from them. Still resolute, she hung on financially, leasing the unharvested stands of white pine. The boys continued to devote their weekends to logging and transporting the logs to the sawmill by the Missisquoi River that flows into nearby Lake Champlain. With each load they recognized their sole source of income was about to end. But that was not their main concern.

At Armand’s high school graduation their mother smiled proudly but could barely catch enough breath to congratulate him. Consumption was taking its toll. Guiding her boys through adolescence and into manhood seemed to be her last attainable goal. Two months later she was laid to rest next to her husband in the Swanton Hill Cemetery.

Armand and Jean didn’t surrender their lifestyle quickly. They continued logging white pine from the hills to the east but could see the scars of harvested pine were foretelling an economic end to their logging. Duck hunting west of Swanton on the shores of Lake Champlain allowed a hunter with a good swing to double-up with a competent call to ducks flying low over the marsh from the north fooled by convincing decoys. The protected waters gave a retrieving dog a fair opportunity, with suggestive arm and hand signals from the shore, to bring in all the downed birds. Waterfowl were still plentiful.

They continued to forage further west further by canoe past the tip of North Hero Island, a course they often took as boys, then south through Alburg Passage, a narrow water route on whose banks Abenaki warriors surely lay in wait for a canoe to come ashore. Apart from these imagined dangers, anyone with a lick of fishing sense could be treated with scattered schools of hungry northern pike, small and large mouth bass. Fish, duck and venison were and continued to be the staples of their diet. Patience, a watchful eye, committed trigger squeeze and a knowledgeable cast reaped easy rewards from the wild in northern Vermont.

The charm of this easy survival was growing thin with the dwindling economic opportunities Armand and Jean saw on the horizon.

The depressed economic conditions in Vermont were not significantly better across the border in Quebec in 1918. Jean wanted to try his luck in Montreal, perhaps working his way into the beer and liquor business that seemed poised like a great river ready to overflow its dam given the prohibitionist movement oddly taking hold in America.

Armand, on the other hand, sensed that the current economic slump was likely to continue, the Germans had done their best to force the United States into war in Europe, and his skills could be put to immediate use on that front.

Let me understand what you are contemplating, Jean inquired. You’re willing to put your life in the hands of some American officer whose knowledge of war most likely comes from a textbook and would consider you as so much cannon fodder? What the hell, you’ve never taken an order from anyone, and my guess is that you will resist the first stupid one that comes your way and be court-martialed before your boots are broken in.

This may be naïve—even stupid, Armand countered, but I need some time to figure out what I want to do in life and, frankly, I’m tired of the snide comments from folks in Swanton who have surrendered their boys to the Army while we live off the land like some modern-day hunter-gatherers. A regular paycheck would be nice for a change, too.

A silence engulfed them. Both recognized what they were about to give up. Jean spoke first: "Okay brother, we’ll keep in touch and see what develops for both of us. With the first picture I send of un fille splendide, you’ll break ranks and head to Montreal, too."

Armand smiled and hugged his brother. He took a light pack from their combined hunting gear, folded his favorite hunting jacket in the bottom and a single change of clothes on the top, then counted out from their cache of funds in a mason jar the price of a train ticket to Burlington and enough for an overnight stay and a meal or two.

Crank up the truck, Jean. I’m only a few minutes away from missing the only train going south. If I miss that, I may change my mind.

He didn’t, and soon was in uniform, headed for basic training along with other young men whose patriotism, like Armand’s, may have been a thin veneer covering their inability to launch a more productive career in difficult times.

2

At War In France

Rain never bothered him, but the rolling mist obscured the field of fire for his machine gun squad. Sgt. Armand Dubuc was the gunner. Three other Doughboys, as the press in the year 1918 called them, provided fire from the flanks of their hastily dug-in position. One of them crouched next to Dubuc ready to guide a belt of .30-06 cartridges into the receiver of the air-cooled Hotchkiss machine gun which, in Dubuc’s steady hands, provided the best protection against the Germans waiting for them in the French wheat fields and woods ahead.

Dubuc’s squad was part of the American Expeditionary Force dispatched to France to bolster the collapsing French and British forces along the Marne River, the last stand protecting Paris, forty-five miles to the southwest, which was predicted to fall victim to the massive German artillery and confident German infantry. The French wine cellars, the prostituées, and mesdemoiselles of the débits des boissons would be theirs for the taking.

However, starting at 4:45 this morning, July 18, 1918, the combined forces, without target-softening artillery, rolled over the top of their trenches just north of Chateau-Thierry—a French village divided by the Marne—that had suffered the loss of its joie de vivre as the German artillery challenged its existence. Dubuc and his squad, and several others of the 7th Machine Gun Battalion, were embedded in the French and American infantry to add fire power to the ground forces as they advanced toward the German line.

Armand had confidence in the talents and battlefield mindset of his own squad, but harbored an uneasy acceptance of a French commander over American forces.

Surprise made up for the lack of traditional pre-assault artillery bombardment. Leaping into the first line of the German trenches after absorbing sporadic fire, the advancing forces, bayonets fixed and expecting hand-to-hand combat, hoped to be able to discern friend from foe in the retreating darkness. Instead, they landed amid small smoldering fires hosting half-full coffee pots and tipped over plates of partially consumed bread and sausage. No weapons were abandoned by the retreating Germans. Raking fire burst from demolished stone buildings strategically situated ahead and halted the initial advance.

Dawn broke with a drizzle. Yellow flashes piercing the dim light with a deadly rat-tat-tat came from a building foundation 500 yards off to Dubuc’s left. That would be his initial target once the rolling artillery barrage began. The tactic, he was told, was to roll punishing artillery bombardments just ahead of the advancing forces. A short round or two would scare hell out of all of us, he thought, and likely produce some widows back home, but would be justified as an expected combat error by the artillery observers.

To his relief the initial barrage landed over 500 yards ahead of his position and Dubuc waited for a renewed burst of fire from the machine gun nest to his left. He lined his sights at the yellow muzzle discharge and at the huddled crew feeding in the deadly piercing rounds. He squeezed the trigger and with two precise bursts of fire the German gun fell silent. The infantry shouted their way out of the trenches and stormed toward the reestablished German line.

Two hundred yards at a time the infantry advanced with artillery rolling ahead as if to direct the course of battle. Dubuc and his crew scrambled with them. The weight of his machine gun and ammo distributed among his crew made slow going, but fields of fire were quickly established as the advance proceeded throughout the day.

Destroyed villages and open fields were left behind as the combined forces entered the woods to the north. Woods were always perceived by him as a sanctuary, and he was relived to leave the destruction—that weighed heavily on him—behind.

The wounded awaited help from the rear. Many died alone. Evening came on quickly and wet. Fumes of high explosives hung in the thick underbrush, making breathing difficult. The woods, however, offered the opportunity for the infantry to spread out, create nests of fire power, discourage a counterattack of overwhelming numbers, and preserve the advances made. Reinforcements could not be far behind, Dubuc surmised.

He set up his machine gun in a nest of rocks and bushes well disguised with a modest field of fire. His riflemen covered his flanks, his ammo bearer had bandoliers of cartridges in the ready position. The counterattack came at dusk. The Germans threaded through the woods toward the temporary front of infantry to his right and left. As the advancing Germans encountered bursts of fire, they’d pinpoint it, envelop it and snuff it out.

A squad of Germans approached Dubuc’s position, now a bare 200 yards away. His mind wandered for a moment with a recollection of a hunt near his home in northern Vermont. Out in the woods near St. Albans, he and his brother Jean waited for a big buck to pass through the underbrush into the meadow below, offering a clear shot. Downwind from the ambling deer they anticipated that the buck would likely pass within thirty yards of them without sensing the danger. True enough, the deer passed unconcerned into the meadow and one clean shot below his magnificent rack brought the deer down. Reverie faded. He turned to his men.

Dubuc signaled to stay down, let the Germans pass, and mumbling to himself, if no secondary force was behind the approaching squad, he would signal to open fire. Cautiously, the Germans waded through the underbrush, ducked under soggy branches above, and passed by. Dubuc gave the signal. His two riflemen bearing their standard Springfields zeroed in on the departing Germans, each opened fire, knowing to select targets in his zone and not overlap. Dubuc swung the big Hotchkiss on its tripod and sprayed the remainder of the Germans before they could dive for protective cover or return fire. The gambit worked. Dubuc recognized, however, that they were now probably behind the German lines, basically on their own.

Artillery was sporadic and ineffective in the thick and tenebrous woods. The Germans kept coming in the closing darkness. Again, a squad-sized detachment was filtering through the woods, this time more to their right. Dubuc signaled to stay down, anticipating exercising the same pass-then-attack maneuver. As the German squad was passing their right flank, Dubuc noted to his horror a larger detachment of Germans coming directly toward them. Any moment their position would be detected, the Boche squad on their right flank could turn and cut off any retreat absent a quick decision. The choices were rotten: The likelihood of Germans taking a few prisoners in this fluid combat situation was slim, the opportunity to retreat was limited and fading fast, a stand to the death here was suicidal, and taking out the few Germans they could mow down before they were overwhelmed would not present a meaningful resistance.

Sgt. Dubuc abandoned his cherished Hotchkiss and drifted back with his three men. As they approached a rocky ledge with a modest field of fire Dubuc signaled to two of his men—move out—we’ll cover. The Germans had detected the movement and directed their fire at Dubuc and his rifleman. Dubuc’s 1911 colt sidearm barked twice and missed, but his rifleman picked off two Germans. The advance was temporarily stalled. His rifleman rammed back the bolt action of his Springfield to insert a new 5-round charge, but before he could return fire the advancing Boche directed concentrated fire his way. Bullets tore into his body and ripped the Springfield from his grip. Dubuc abandoned his position, jumped from rock-to-rock down the boulder-strewn ledge. A German sharpshooter tracked Dubuc’s progress, finding difficulty moving his front sight ahead of his target, but finally front sight and rear sight aligned on Dubuc’s right shoulder and he squeezed the trigger.

As he was leaping from a large boulder to the next, something spun Dubuc in midair and he crashed to the rocks below. His side arm clattered down the remaining slope of the ledge and he found himself wedged between two large rocks—out of sight, but bleeding profusely, with piercing pain in his shoulder.

My God, the sons-of-bitches got me, he muttered, and I’ve got to stop this bleeding. He struggled to reach the field bandage stuffed in his cartridge belt, tore it open and gingerly placed it over the crushed bone and ligaments beneath. The bandage, although soaked with blood, held. He opened the front of his shirt and with his left hand, placed his right hand into the opening as a makeshift sling. Looking up the ledge he saw that no Germans had pursued.

Drizzle continued and darkness settled over the war-torn woods. Can’t wait here, he thought. I’ve got to find our lines and a field hospital, or a week from now the graves registration section will be the only one to find me. The broad allied front should offer relative safety no matter how indirect my route.

As Dubuc reached the edge of the woods that he and his squad had entered earlier he heard muffled voices, all in German. Gibt es auf diesen beiden keine Karten oder Zeichnungen irgendwelcher art? one questioned with disgust. Are there no maps or drawings of any kind on these two? "Nein, nichts." No, nothing.

Dubuc strained his sight and his ears for a familiar phrase and a glimpse at the bodies they were searching but was afraid to move any closer, or move at all. One of the Germans grasped the dog tags of one of the downed soldiers and struck a match. Das sind Amerikaner, he said observing the familiar shape and metal. These are Americans. Die wertlosen Franzosen konnten nicht allein halten. Diese Informationen werden für unseren Kommandanten nützlich sein. The worthless French couldn’t hold on alone. This information will be useful to our Commanders.

Dubuc understood nothing except American. He hunkered further down in the brush and waited for the Germans to pass. His initial fears were quickly confirmed as he knelt down over the two bullet-riddled men, face down in the mud. The familiar Springfield still in the grasp of one and belts of .30-06 machine gun ammo still hung on the neck of the other told him that the war was over for the remainder of his squad. Despair and blood loss were taking their toll on his ability to continue on. He briefly thought to pick up the Springfield, but his right arm was useless and one more thing to carry would have dragged him down.

The sky had partially cleared and Orion’s constellation arrow was visible. That gave him a general north-south course. He struggled to his feet and headed southwest. He waded through the knee-high wheat, crushed only where his advancing comrades had passed this morning. He stumbled over the debris surrounding two artillery shell holes, jamming his shoulder. He surrendered to a muffled cry of pain, struggled to his feet, and forcing one foot in front of the other he continued on.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead was a yellow hint of a light, and pausing for a moment to allow his eyes to focus he could make out the outline of a low building, or part of a building. The light appeared so out-of-place in the devastated landscape surrounding him. Approaching cautiously, he weaved through a small orchard toward a half-standing farmhouse beyond. No voices reached him and no military vehicles were visible. The risk is worth taking, he mused. I can’t survive without some help, I can’t walk any further, and a frightened French farmer is more likely the occupant and less likely than the Boche to shoot me.

Unable to observe much of the interior through the narrow opening through a shattered shutter over the window, he staggered to the adjoining door. He knocked lightly, and in his best Canadian French he said, Hello within. I’m an American and I need help.

He heard movement inside and sensed that someone was close to the door. Les soldats Américains ne parlent pas français, batârd Boche! American soldiers do not speak French, you Boche bastard!

The strident, but obviously female voice surprised him. If I am, I’ve made some terrible mistakes because I killed a lot of those bastards today, he responded in French. He was becoming lightheaded and leaned against the wall but was relieved that they were able to communicate.

What do you want? I have nothing here, but an ailing father, and little food.

I’m wounded, can’t take another step and I’m bleeding to death.

The door slowly opened a crack but was still chained. Dubuc moved as much as he could toward the light so that he could be observed. A moment passed, the door opened, and a lighted lantern was thrust toward him. Behind it a petite dark-haired young woman confronted him. My God, what a mess you are! she said as she opened the door fully to receive her unexpected guest.

Despite his gnawing pain, Armand did not fail to note a lock of black hair that had sensuously dropped over one eye and her generous figure as she moved to assist him. Thank God there is some beauty left in this miserable world—he thought but was unable to utter.

Lifting his left arm onto her shoulder, she guided Armand to a sofa near a large fireplace now devoted to cooking. As she eased Armand onto the sofa she turned her head and exclaimed in French to someone Armand could not see, Papa, do not be concerned. No Boche. Only a wounded American soldier. Only a grunt in acknowledgment came from another room.

Gingerly, she unbuttoned Armand’s shirt while holding his right hand in hers pressed against his chest. Can you hold your arm in that position for a moment? she asked him. She seemed surprised to see a gold necklace bearing a large gold cross around his neck over his dog tags. He would have been a battlefield prize for the Boche barbarians, she thought. She peeled his shirt off his left shoulder then worked the right sleeve down his right arm and tossed his bloody shirt into a sink in a small laundry room adjoining the kitchen.

She walked across the room, found a small towel, immersed it in a pot of hot water hung over the side of a small fire, and allowing it to cool, she cleaned the entry of the bullet wound on his back, and carefully removed the bandage on the front. The wound had clotted, and she gently cleaned the edges. A bandage was applied to the front and back and a clean sling torn from a white tablecloth was expertly fashioned to hold Armand’s right arm in place.

You obviously have done this before, he muttered with some difficulty.

Yes, I was assigned to the hospital in Chateau-Thierry, but my father became ill, refused to evacuate, and so, here I am, still caring for the sick and wounded, while trying to keep the Boche from destroying everything we have.

I think that we may have changed their mind about taking Paris, today, Armand haltingly responded.

Perhaps. But tomorrow, assuming the battle continues northward, I will try to transport you on our rickety wagon to the field hospital, three kilometers back. This wound cannot go unattended, she said.

Dubuc nodded, rested his left shoulder against the back of the sofa, felt his eyelids closing, mumbled a garbled Thank you, and fell into a fitful sleep.

He awoke early the following morning to a sharp pain in his shoulder radiating to his hand. The woman was preparing something in a pan over the fire. Crepes and apples with coffee he sleepily remarked. Yes, and that’s about it, she responded. Apples and a few vegetables are all that are left in our cellar.

Shifting to a sitting position, he turned to her and said, I never asked your name last night. I’m sorry.

Cosette, she said. And you are a mystery to me. You say you are an American, but you speak French with an accent I can’t identify.

My name is . . . Armand Dubuc, Armand lamely began. I was raised in northern Vermont, near the Quebec border. My mother and father were French Canadians, both raised and schooled in St. Jean, Quebec. We moved to a small town in Vermont. French was our . . . mother tongue. Armand struggled to complete his sentence. My father was in the lumber business. My brother Jean and I expanded the sources of lumber by leasing large tracts. Armand paused. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, grimaced as he lifted his shattered arm