More than one eye greedily took in her beauty and form.
Despite the unrevealing nature of the dress, the fact that Anne-Marie was a woman in her prime was evident for all to see.
Knocke risked a look in all directions, seeing disappointed faces checking and rechecking their watches.
He returned his eyes to the vision of beauty that was approaching and, not for the first time, thanked fate for bringing this woman to him, and for giving him the greatest gift; her love.
The ceremony was brief but elegant, with De Walle giving away the bride and Lavalle acting as best man.
It seemed like only a few moments later that they were married and walking back down the aisle, arm in arm, surrounded by friends and comrades, all armed with the broadest of smiles.
Ernst-August and Anne-Marie Knocke stepped out into the cold to be illuminated by the brightest of winter suns and greeted by the smartest detachment of legionnaires in parade dress, who immediately gave a general’s salute at the order of Capitaine Durand, who had slipped out of the church unobserved.
At Durand’s invitation, the newly-weds inspected his formed detachment, something that seemed odd to the civilians watching, but that was fully understood by the military observers.
Photographers plied their trade, and friends and comrades closed in or dispersed, depending on who was summoned.
After a long delay, the bride and groom mounted the carriage that would take them to the reception at the Sports Club in the old Falcon Palace.
1155 hrs, Saturday, 4th January 1947, Pałacyk Sokół [Falcon Palace], Park Miejski, Skawina, Poland.
The food was amazing, considering all the privations that visited themselves on Europe.
Over two hundred people were crammed into the main rooms of the Falcon Palace.
It had been agreed that lots would be drawn amongst the legionnaires and the lucky men, three from every unit under Knocke’s command, plied their commander and his new wife with soldier’s gifts from their different units, given to the man and woman out of true love, comradeship, and respect.
Although not a draw winner, Haefali had arranged for one legionnaire to attend, albeit briefly.
Offering the newly-weds a gift of two hand-carved wooden candlesticks was Yitzhak Rubenstein, the old legionnaire who had helped Knocke and Haefali bring peace to the dead Soviet paratroopers in the courtyard of the Chateau so long ago.
Rubenstein and Knocke shared a handshake, and for a few seconds as they clasped hands, they shared a silent memory.
“Thank you, Yitzhak. They will be treasured.”
The old legionnaire slipped away without further ceremony.
Knocke was refreshed that the recent events had not lain too hard on his soldiers, and that this wedding seemed to have brought them back closer together.
He could only laugh when daughter Greta proudly announced that she was the official mascot of the 1er RdM, a position granted to her by the three men from Emmercy’s unit.
The top table was set with its back towards large French windows that allowed the winter sun in and provided a superb white backdrop to the wedding party.
The hall was graced by many displays of material flowers worked with evergreen foliage, the most impressive of which were set in front of the feet of the main table; two large ceramic pots, hand painted with local scenes, which contained the finest and tallest of the handmade displays.
Waiting staff from the local population walked out with glasses already primed with champagne, or as close as they could get in war-torn Poland, and started to distribute the contents of their trays amongst the well-wishers.
The waiter bringing the drinks to the top table seemed to be the clumsiest of all the Poles, and certainly the oldest, but he had given his time freely and was apparently in charge of the volunteers.
With studied care, he set a glass down in front of each person…
Lavalle…
Greta… bridesmaid
Armande Fleriot…
Magda… bridesmaid
De Lattre…
Sabine de Rochechouart, maid of honour and Anne-Marie’s long-time friend.
Ernst…
Anne-Marie…
De Walle…
Plummer…
Clementine Plummer, his wife…
Haefali…
Each in turn received a glass.
The old man set down the tray to place out the last two glasses and coughed, extinguishing two of the candles with the gust of air, and then contrived to knock the last glass onto the floor.
The shattering of glass drew a few looks, but nothing was particularly out of the ordinary, so all minds returned to the task of celebrating.
All except one, a trained mind that understood something simply wasn’t correct but couldn’t identify what.
Madame Fleriot had quickly engaged with General De Lattre, and the two became involved in deep conversation for most of the reception, or up until the glasses started rattling to quieten people down, ready for the speeches.
De Walle rose to his feet, the act accompanied by a few growls from officers, keen to bring the group to order.
The old man bent down next to the large floral decoration, and picked up the pieces of glass with studied care.
The redness in his face marked embarrassment to those who gave him a second look, but not to the eyes that bored into him as he moved up and down from floor to table.
The old man finished picking up pieces, relit the candles, and moved away.
De Walle stood to give his speech, as the new Frau Knocke rose to shout a warning.
“Stop!”
The room fell into instant silence, marked only by the sounds of breathing and a single set of footsteps.
“Stop him!”
From those on the top table, Haefali was the nearest, so he and two legionnaires grabbed at the old man who grimly tried to push them away with his tray full of broken glass.
Another legion officer grabbed the tray, allowing the two legionnaires to hold the man.
All eyes then swivelled to Anne-Marie who pointed at the floral display.
“The display!”
He had been clever, but not clever enough.
The candle smoke had masked the slight smell of burning associated with a pencil fuse.
The glass had been the perfect distraction, and provided him with a reason to get down on the floor next to the floral decoration.
Without a second thought, Plummer, now the nearest, moved round the table and looked into the display, his face reflecting his horror even as his mouth started to work.
“Get out now!”
The room galvanised and the reactions of the soldiers took over, most grabbing someone less aware.
Plummer grabbed the charge and ran for the French windows.
He half kicked, half-shouldered open the double doors and ran, mentally counting off ten large bounds before he threw the device as far as he could.
It exploded two seconds after bouncing for a second time, transforming an old wooden cart into something much less recognisable, but infinitely more deadly.
Inside the building, the explosive shock wave showered the occupants with glass moving at high speed.
There were many injuries.
Knocke’s two daughters had been swept up in strong arms and shielded from the blast, Greta by the body of Lavalle, who simply turned his back on the blast as he hurried her away in the opposite direction, and Magda, who was pushed to the floor and lain on by Armande Fleriot, whose still sharp reactions betrayed her murky past.
Both Lavalle and Madame Fleriot were cut by glass, but nothing that was serious, at least not when compared to others.