Free A Troubled Peace by L. M. Elliott

exterminate.
    â€œExterminate.” The doctor half-sobbed the word. “They slaughtered two hundred people around Vassieux alone, old men, children, women. They castrated men, raped women, gouged out eyes, cut out tongues.
    â€œThere was a twelve-year-old girl buried under rubble, who pleaded for help and water for days. The Nazis laughed at her and shot any survivor who tried to approach to save her. Finally Father Gagnol”—he nodded toward the soft-handed man—“convinced them to let him dig herout. He brought her to the hospital. But it was too late. She died.”
    The doctor ripped his arm away from Henry’s grip. “Patron,” he cried, “I am done here.”

C HAPTER E LEVEN
    H enry sat dazed, horrified, incapable of absorbing it all, because to do so, he would have to comprehend it. How could anyone understand such savage behavior?
    He had seen friends mangled by flak. He’d survived Luftwaffe pilots trying to blast him to bits. He’d endured being tortured physically and psychologically by the Gestapo. Becoming the object of that kind of calculated cruelty, like a mouse toyed with by a cat, changed a man—and not for the better. But it was nothing compared to what the doctor described, that kind of sadistic annihilation of an entire valley of people.
    How could anyone go on after witnessing that?
    Henry watched le patron ease himself up off the bench, square his shoulders, and turn to come into the church. The priest shadowed him, protective.
    That was how. One step in front of the other. Breathe in. Breathe out. Remember the kindness, the bravery that managed to flicker amid such darkness. Like Pierre. Keep faith in that capacity within humans and follow the beacon up out of the abyss. One step in front of the other—a slow march back.
    If this grizzled maquisard could keep walking after such devastation, Henry sure could, too.
    Henry rose, straightened his spine to ease the bite of his rib, and extended his hand to shake the old warrior’s. They were compatriots of a sort—waging war against their own internal demons of regret as surely as they had fought real battles against the Nazis. Henry understood why le patron hit him, the lunacy of it. Perhaps he was suffering flashbacks, too, and he saw Henry as the personification of those who had betrayed “his children.” Sometimes crazy actions carried their own logic. After all, Henry had stolen a plane to talk to God in a midnight sky. It’d made complete sense to him at the time.
    Henry wasn’t going to expect an apology from the old fighter. He’d make it all right for the guy. Le patron had known enough humiliation.
    As Henry grasped le patron ’s hand and smiled reassuringly, he could see a quiet gratitude in le patron ’s deep-set, droopy eyes. Recognizing it, Henry felt someof his own turmoil fall away.
    Maybe it took a broken rib for him to begin to mend.
    Â 
    â€œHenry Forester, sir. Second lieutenant, American Air Forces.”
    Le patron nodded in greeting and gestured to the pale-faced man. “This is Father Gagnol.”
    It was the first time Henry really had a good look at the priest. He caught his breath. It was Pierre’s priest. He was certain of it.
    â€œFather. Boy, am I glad to see you!” Henry was so excited he got all tangled as he blurted out why. “You’re just the person I’m looking for. Well, not the person, but the person who can help me find the person.”
    The priest shook his head. “Slow, my son. My English is not that fast.”
    How could he be slow now? Henry wanted to jump up and down like he had when he was little and trying to grab Lilly’s attention. “I’ve come back to find Pierre.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œPierre!”
    â€œThere are…were…many Pierres here, lieutenant.”
    Henry took a deep breath to make himself coherent. “Right. Of course. Let me explain.