‘Shall I put him on a charge for leaving the camp without requesting permission from an officer?’ asked the duty sergeant.
‘No,’ said Wakeham. ‘I shall be issuing company orders, effective immediately, that Player has been made up to corporal.’ Corporal Player smiled, saluted and returned to his tent. But before he went to sleep, he sewed two stripes on each sleeve of his uniform.
As the regiment advanced slow mile after slow mile deeper into France, Player continued to lead sorties behind the lines, always returning with vital information. His biggest prize was when he came back accompanied by a German officer whom he had caught with his trousers down.
Lieutenant Wakeham was impressed by the fact that Player had captured the man, and even more when he began the interrogation, and found that the corporal was able to assume the role of interpreter.
The next morning they stormed the village of Orbec, which they overran by nightfall. The lieutenant sent a dispatch to his headquarters to let them know that Corporal Player’s information had shortened the battle.
Three months after Private John Player had landed on the beach at Normandy, the North Staffordshire Regiment marched down the Champs Élysées, and the newly promoted Sergeant Player had only one thing on his mind: how to find a woman who would be happy to spend his three nights’ leave with him or — if he got really lucky — three women who would spend one night each.
But before they were let loose on the city, all noncommissioned officers were told that they must first report to the welcoming committee for Allied personnel, where they would be given advice on how to find their way around Paris. Sergeant Player couldn’t imagine a bigger waste of his time. He knew exactly how to take care of himself in any European capital. All he wanted was to be let loose before the American troops got their hands on everything under forty.
When Sergeant Player arrived at the committee headquarters, a requisitioned building in the Place de la Madeleine, he took his place in line waiting to receive a folder of information about what was expected of him while he was on Allied territory — how to locate the Eiffel Tower, which clubs and restaurants were within his price range, how to avoid catching V.D. It looked as if this advice was being dispensed by a group of middle-aged ladies who couldn’t possibly have seen the inside of a nightclub for the past twenty years.
When he finally reached the front of the queue, he just stood there mesmerized, quite unable to utter a word in any language. A slim young girl with deep brown eyes and dark curly hair stood behind the trestle table, and smiled up at the tall, shy sergeant. She handed him his folder, but he didn’t move on.
‘Do you have any questions?’ she asked in English, with a strong French accent.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What is your name?’
‘Charlotte,’ she told him, blushing, although she had already been asked the same question a dozen times that day.
‘And are you French?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Get on with it, Sarge,’ demanded the corporal standing behind him.
‘Are you doing anything for the next three days?’ he asked, switching to her own language.
‘Not a lot. But I am on duty for another two hours.’
‘Then I’ll wait for you,’ he said. He turned and took a seat on a wooden bench that had been placed against the wall.
During the next 120 minutes John Player’s gaze rarely left the girl with curly, dark hair, except to check the slow progress of the minute hand on the large clock which hung on the wall behind her. He was glad that he had waited and not suggested he would return later, because during those two hours he saw several other soldiers lean over to ask her exactly the same question he had. On each occasion she looked across in the direction of the sergeant, smiled and shook her head. When she finally handed over her responsibilities to a middle-aged matron, she walked across to join him. Now it was her turn to ask a question.
‘What would you like to do first?’
He didn’t tell her, but happily agreed to being shown around Paris.
For the next three days he rarely left Charlotte’s side, except when she returned to her little apartment in the early hours. He did climb the Eiffel Tower, walk along the banks of the Seine, visit the Louvre and stick to most of the advice given in the folder, which meant that they were almost always accompanied by at least three regiments of single soldiers who, whenever they passed him, were unable to hide the look of envy on their faces.
They ate in overbooked restaurants, danced in nightclubs so crowded they could only shuffle around on the spot, and talked of everything except a war that might cause them to have only three precious days together. Over coffee in the Hotel Cancelier he told her of the family in Douski he hadn’t seen for four years.
He went on to describe to her everything that had happened to him since he had escaped from Czechoslovakia, leaving out only his experience with Mari. She told him of her life in Lyon, where her parents owned a small vegetable shop, and of how happy she had been when the Allies had reoccupied her beloved France. But now she longed only for the war to be over.
‘But not before I have won the Victoria Cross,’ he told her.
She shuddered, because she had read that many people who were awarded that medal received it posthumously. ‘But when the war is over,’ she asked him, ‘what will you do then?’ This time he hesitated, because she had at last found a question to which he did not have an immediate answer.
‘Go back to England,’ he said finally, ‘where I shall make my fortune.’
‘Doing what?’ she asked.
‘Not selling newspapers,’ he replied, ‘that’s for sure.’
During those three days and three nights the two of them spent only a few hours in bed — the only time they were apart.
When he finally left Charlotte at the front door of her tiny apartment, he promised her, ‘As soon as we have taken Berlin, I will return.’
Charlotte’s face crumpled as the man she had fallen in love with strode away, because so many friends had warned her that once they had left, you never saw them again. And they were to be proved right, because Charlotte Reville never saw John Player again.
Sergeant Player signed in at the guardhouse only minutes before he was due on parade. He shaved quickly and changed his shirt before checking company orders, to find that the commanding officer wanted him to report to his office at 0900 hours.
Sergeant Player marched into the office, came to attention and saluted as the clock in the square struck nine. He could think of a hundred reasons why the C.O. might want to see him. But none of them turned out to be right.
The colonel looked up from his desk. ‘I’m sorry, Player,’ he said softly, ‘but you’re going to have to leave the regiment.’
‘Why, sir?’ Player asked in disbelief. ‘What have I done wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he said with a laugh, ‘nothing at all. On the contrary. My recommendation that you should receive the King’s Commission has just been ratified by High Command. It will therefore be necessary for you to join another regiment so that you are not put in charge of men who have recently served with you in the ranks.’
Sergeant Player stood to attention with his mouth open.
‘I am simply complying with army regulations,’ the C.O. explained. ‘Naturally the regiment will miss your particular skills and expertise. But I have no doubt that we will be hearing of you again at some time in the future. All I can do now, Player, is wish you the best of luck when you join your new regiment.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, assuming the interview was over. ‘Thank you very much.’