��ѿ��ý

Quite often I wonder what became of her — Mademoiselle de L’Hottelerie.
Over 50 years ago a whole regiment of Royal Artillery stopped for just one night in this tiny village in Normandy. Their two massive eight-inch (210mm) super-heavy guns, with a barrel length of 33ft (10 metres), which were on the was to the front, gouged deep tracks into the soft verges as the 6ft high wheels came to a halt, and we arrived, dirty and dishevelled, in recently liberated L’Hottelerie as darkness fell.
A quick wash and a shave, and we were in the village hall, where a dance had been arranged in our honour. Having never mastered the art of which Fred Astaire was ‘the tops’ I sat listening to the three-piece band who were members of the valiant Maquis while most of our lads hobnailed their way around the floor with les dames.

With a most vivacious smile, she came and sat beside me; I suppose she thought I looked lonely (and she was right!). Anyway, the evening progressed, we chatted away as best we could, I in my schoolboy French, she in schoolgirl Anglais. As the effects of a couple of glasses of local cidre took hold, I sang J’attendrai to her with more feeling that Jean Sablon, and she replied with Eet is a long way to Tipperary.
Of course she ended up on my lap and there was much cheerful banter and envious remarks from my fellow gunners as they clattered their way around the dance floor — “Cor, got yourself a cracker there, eh?” Midnight approached, and as I escorted Nicole to the café adjacent to the village hall, and which was her home, she told me she had had a lovely time, embracing and kissing me — on both cheeks- was tired, but “Eet ‘as been nice meeting you Tommy…”
We left L’Hottelerie at 7am the next morning, and she was there, together with her whole family! With a lovely smile she shouted “Au revoir Tommy, don’t forget you sang J’attendrai!” Her mother and father laughed with her two brothers; we all laughed and Nicole blushed as I pecked at her cheeks.
…As the huge, menacing guns pulled slowly out of the village, I waved to the Mademoiselle, and with a heavy feeling of sadness I reflected upon the fact that this pretty little eight year-old had been my ‘silver lining’, if only for a fleeting evening, in those dark, clouded and so very insecure days.

This story was submitted to the People’s War website by Sarah Tack of the CSV Action Desk on behalf of Mr Reg Otter and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.