The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart

      “Ah! I see you aren’t injured after all, mon jeune ami,” said the tall, thin friar whom he presumed was Frère Siméon.

      “Non, mon Père. I was injured but I am better now.”

      “He speaks French!” Frère Benedict exclaimed, leaning forward, his eyes wider than ever.

      “So I gather,” Frère Siméon replied patiently. “What are you doing here?”

      “Where am I? In France?”

      “Unfortunately not. You are not far from the Bodensee, near the Swiss border, but still very much on German territory. Thus I recommend we do not linger. If you are indeed French, we cannot take the risk that you are found.”

      “Thank you,” Gavin replied gratefully. “I am a British soldier. I escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp some time ago.” He began rising painfully.

      Frère Siméon looked around quickly. “If we should encounter anyone, you must pretend to be drunk. Here, lean on me as though you are having difficulty walking.”

      Gavin was so tired and weak he could barely stand. His wound had begun to ache once more and walking was difficult. Slowly they made their way through the vineyard toward a gracious manor house that stood on a slight rise, surrounded by vines. Its ancient walls were a soft vanilla yellow, and under the gabled slate roof the windows were arched and numerous. Hidden to the left stood a beautiful baroque chapel.

      “Is this a monastery?” he asked.

      “No. It is the estate of Baron von Lorsheid, a good Catholic, who suggested we move here when our monastery came under fire. There are several French and Italian monks among us. The locals do not bother us much. They are mostly devout, God-fearing folk.”

      “And the war?” Gavin asked, leaning perilously on Frère Siméon’s shoulder. “What is happening?”

      “Things are very bad. There is very little food and much talk of defeat among the Germans. I don’t think it can last much longer. There are too many dead, too many hungry, and no desire to fight. All these poor souls want is their life back.” He shook his head. “I’ve heard rumors that the Americans are repelling the enemy with the British and the French. Be careful.” Frère Siméon held Gavin’s arm tightly as he stumbled, dizzy. By the time they reached the heavy oak door of the manor, he was ready to collapse.

      “Come inside, mon ami, but do not speak. And, Frère Benedict, do not mention that—What is your name?”

      “Gavin, Gavin MacLeod.”

      “That is no good.” Frère Siméon frowned. “Too British. We shall name you Johannes. Frère Benedict—” he turned and looked pointedly at the other monk “—this is Johannes. Will you remember that?”

      “But he just said—”

      “The good Lord has asked us to forget what he just said and has instructed us to call him by the name of Johannes,” he said pointedly.

      Frère Benedict scratched the balding patch on the crown of his head, eyelids blinking rapidly. Then he nodded and shrugged. “Eh, bon! If it is the Lord’s wish…”

      “It is,” Frère Siméon replied emphatically.

      Reaching a staircase Frère Siméon turned once more. “Brother, please find him a habit. One that will fit,” he added, looking Gavin over with a smile. “You must be very tired and hungry.”

      Three monks walked toward them as they reached the gallery, and Gavin stiffened warily. But Frère Siméon merely smiled and nodded. “There is nothing to be feared from our own brethren, but we must keep you hidden from the village folk. The risk of discovery is too great. For us all,” he added dryly. Gavin shivered, thinking of Franz and Greta, and the risks they had taken for his sake.

      The sudden wheezing and jolting of the train as it pulled into the station at Nancy woke him, and the dreams disappeared abruptly as he joined the bustle. Leaning over, the woman seated beside him told him that Nancy was a town of anarchistes and révolutionnaires.

      After some questioning, he was told the most likely spot to find an army lorry heading north was the Place Stanislas. Four hours later he was squeezed in the back of a canvas-covered truck with twenty-five French soldiers on their way to join the forces near the Sambre. There, the Americans and British armies were repelling the Germans. From the soldiers’ enthusiasm, Gavin ascertained that they considered the war would soon be over. They laughed, told raucous jokes, shared their black-tobacco cigarettes with him and passed round a bottle of cognac.

      He tried to get information on the British troop movements up near Arras, but no one knew much about what the British were up to. It was les Américains they were interested in, for apparently the Germans were terrified of them. One soldier gave a dramatic description of American G.I.s bursting out of nowhere in hordes, with such enthusiasm that the mere sight of them sent the Germans into flight. There was boisterous laughter, and the bottle of cognac made the rounds again. All the while, Gavin racked his brains for the best way to get back to his battalion.

      The excitement was contagious. Perhaps Angus would be there and all would be resolved. Flora and the family would finally know he was all right. The thought of Flora made him somewhat ashamed. If the truth be told, he’d barely remembered her since the months with Greta. For the first time, he wondered what he was going to do. He had asked Flora to marry him, yet he had promised Greta that he would return for her.

      Conflicted, his mind was kept busy with the dilemma until the truck chuffed up a hill and came to an abrupt halt. There were exclamations, groans and expletives from the men. Gavin leaned out of the back to see what was going on. Then he heard English voices. Without a second thought he clambered over the men and jumped off the truck, heading hastily toward a group of three officers, realizing at once they were American. One turned and he grabbed the chance to speak to him.

      “Excuse me, are you heading to the front?”

      “Sure are,” the man replied, eyeing him curiously.

      “Can I get a lift from you? I’m trying to rejoin my regiment. I’m Captain Gavin MacLeod of the Fifty-first Highlanders. I was taken prisoner and escaped.” He straightened his shoulders.

      “A lift?” The man raised an eyebrow and scrutinized Gavin’s peasant clothes and unshaven chin.

      “He means a ride,” his fellow officer put in with a grin. “What’s your name?”

      “Captain MacLeod of the Fifty-first Highlanders.” Gavin saluted smartly, hoping they’d believe him.

      “Sounds good enough to me. Jump in the truck. Say, I don’t suppose you understand this gibberish?” He nodded toward a flustered French lieutenant.

      “As a matter of fact, I do.”

      “Lord be praised. Gimme a hand over here, will you?”

      To everyone’s relief, Gavin began translating the conversation. The Americans were suitably impressed.

      “Boy, you’re good. How did you learn Frog?” a gum-chewing soldier asked.

      “My mother’s French.”

      “Great. I’m Colonel Bill Donovan, First American Army, New York Sixty-ninth Regiment. We’re heading to St. Mihiel. That’s where the heat’s on right now. The Frogs need help.” He gave Gavin a speculative look. “We could use a guy like you around. I don’t suppose you’d consider joining our unit for a while before returning to your own?”

      “I’d be delighted,” he replied without the slightest hesitation. They were headed in the right direction and that was all that mattered.

      Jumping in the new American truck, they began the journey north. Soon Gavin was learning all that had occurred over the past months: the big German offensive, Ludendorff’s penetration of France and how Big Bertha—a gun with a range of seventy-five miles—was terrifying the shit out of Paris. In June the