"Right as rain you are, Corporal."
I thought I understood most of what he said. Harry was okay, but wounded.
"Thanks, guys," I said as I sat up. I fought to stay up as someone pounded my head with a sledgehammer. Rodney grabbed me by the shoulders.
"Hold on, sir, you're going to be a bit woozy for a while. You might have a concussion."
"Are you guys doctors in your spare time?"
"Spare time, that's a good one, sir. We're all trained as medics in the Royal Commandos."
With Rodney's help, I stayed up this time. He was just a skinny kid, but he had a good grip and the kind of confidence that comes from knowing how to maim people twenty different ways, and then bind up their wounds. I looked at the other commando, an older guy, mid thirties maybe, stocky, with a broken nose and hams for hands.
"Corporal…?"
"Corporal Peter Duxbury, at your service, sir. And this is Lance Corporal Rodney Longsmith."
"Well, Corporal Duxbury, help me down and tell me what happened."
I got down from the bar. When my feet hit the floor the shock went through my body and rattled my head. I took a couple of deep breaths and looked at myself. My hands were black, rubbed clean in a few places where they had checked for burns, but otherwise caked with soot. My uniform had scorch marks on it and my web belt was charred in a couple of places. I realized I didn't know how much time had passed since I'd blacked out.
"How long has it been?"
"Since what, sir?"
"Since I got knocked out!"
"Oh, you've been out about 'alf an 'our, sir."
"Jesus Christ! Where are Banville and Harry?"
"The Chief is in there with his Captain, finishing up the bandaging. We figured you was worse off than he was, so we left 'im to start on you."
Rodney pointed to a side room off the bar. I started walking, staggered, and had to hold onto the wall to stay upright. It was cool to the touch, rough stucco with little framed pictures at eye level. The first one was Petain, then some other old guys I didn't recognize: this may have been the French Fascist Hall of Fame. A small archway, complete with those hanging strands of beads you always see in the movies, framed the entrance to a cafe restaurant. Inside, Banville was sitting at a table with Harry, who had his leg propped up on a chair. Banville was ripping the end of the bandage down the middle and bringing one end around to tie it off. There was a bottle of brandy, a revolver, and a couple of empty glasses on the table. A cigarette dangled from Harry's lips. They looked like gangsters in a B movie set in the Kasbah.
"Give me a hand, I've got to search this place," I said, and tried to turn around. It didn't go well. Rodney, who had followed me in, caught me before I fell.
"Have a seat, Billy. Have a drink for that matter," said Harry. "I certainly needed one. Never having been shot before, I wasn't quite prepared for it. Not to mention watching you walk through fire." He looked at me with a question in his eyes, as if he were considering my sanity and coming up a few marbles short.
I ended up in the seat next to Harry, with Rodney pushing, or guiding, me down. I didn't have time to deal with a concussion, but standing up seemed a bit of an ordeal, so I decided sitting was enough of an improvement over being unconscious, for now. Trying to think through everything that happened and get moving at the same time, was too much. My head was pounding and thinking was like slogging uphill through molasses. Seeing Diana like that was way too much. I didn't understand it. What was wrong with her? It was as if she didn't care that I was right in front of her.
I became dimly aware that I didn't know everything that had happened. Where had that machine gun fire come from? What were these two commandos doing here? I looked around at Rodney and into the bur at Corporal Duxbury packing up my medical gear. I turned to Banville and tried to form a question.
"The cavalry," said Banville before I could ask. "I was watching the corner when they came by. Said they were doing some recon, but it seemed to me they were just out looking for a fight."
"Well, the landing was unopposed, sir," said Rodney, rather apologetically.
"They drove up in a jeep with a mounted. 30 caliber machine gun," continued Banville, "and we saw those chaps with the black armbands…"
"Service d'Order Legionnaire," I said, trying to make it sound French. "SOL."
"… ah, the French Fascists," said Harry, nodding as if now being shot made sense.
"As soon as we got close," Banville said as he gave Harry's bandage a tug, "they started firing at us. You must've been near the rear entrance. I thought you could use a diversion, so the corporal opened up with the. 30 caliber. That sent them scrambling. All right, Captain, try that leg now." Banville patted Harry on the shoulder. He grimaced as he swung his leg off the chair.
"Did anyone look around here yet?" I asked, trying to stand. I made it but I had to grip the edge of the chair. My legs were wobbly, the room spun a bit, but I stayed vertical.
"I've been too busy bleeding," said Harry, who was putting weight on his wounded leg, taking little gingerly half steps across the floor.
"We checked out the rooms upstairs, sir," chimed in Rodney. "No one up there, but we didn't have time to search 'em proper."
"Okay, let's start down here," I said. "Look for any paperwork and any mention of U.S. Army supplies. Harry, take a seat in the bar where you can watch the front and rear entrances. We don't want any surprises."
With Harry in the main barroom, seated at a table with a view front and back, we split up and went through the ground floor. Banville took the restaurant, searching a chest of drawers and a couple of packing crates. Nothing but cutlery and wine bottles. Duxbury and Longsmith eagerly pulled out bottles and the drinking debris that tends to gather on bar shelves. Tankards, playing cards, stacks of matchbooks just like the one I had, a billy club, and a set of brass knuckles were all tossed onto the top of the bar. I checked out a door to the right of the bar, just before a stairway that went up to the second floor. It was the most disgusting bathroom I'd ever seen. There was a hole in the floor and a place for your feet. They could've hidden a fortune in diamonds down there and I'd have passed it up. I held my breath and looked around for a couple of seconds to be sure I didn't miss anything. Nothing but dead flies on the floor. Even they couldn't live in this stench. I shut the door and stumbled backward into the barroom, almost colliding with Duxbury as I let out my breath.
"That place almost made me 'omesick for the old East End, it did," laughed Duxbury, enjoying my discomfort. "Four families sharing one loo, and that backed up often as she flushed. One of the reasons I love the Army. The loo is always scrubbed down nice!"
"Clean toilets, three squares, and new threads. I guess it could be worse," I admitted.
"Square what, sir, if you don't mind me asking?" said Duxbury.
"Meals. Square meals, and threads are clothes." I was glad he had as hard a time understanding me as I did him.
I checked the cash register behind the bar. Lots of francs and notes that looked like IOUs. I lifted up the cash drawer.
"Well, I'll be damned," I muttered. "Wonder who's been drinking their schnapps here?" I held up two fifty Reichsmark notes.
"Blimey," said Duxbury. "Bleedin' Jerries get drinks and we get shot at!"
"Don't seem right, do it?" asked Rodney, shaking his head slowly at the injustice of it all, eyeing the array of bottles stacked up on the wall behind the bar.
"Gentlemen," I said, "it hurts me to say this, but we have to stay sober. We're going to need you to drive us somewhere after we finish here."