Les Ruines by James R. Vance: A Preview

In memory of those who fought and died for freedom 

Prologue

Gilbert Pinson and his wife lived in a hamlet close to Magnac Laval in southwest France; he was ninety years old and still very active. His wife was thirteen years younger, but suffered from Parkinson’s disease.

In 2005, an Englishman with a limited knowledge of the French language purchased a nearby property to renovate as a holiday home. Early one evening that summer, covered in plasterboard dust and almost knee-deep in wood shavings, he answered a knock at his door. He opened it to find the stooped figure of Gilbert before him. The diminutive Frenchman with his shock of silvery hair and wrinkled features looked like one of Tolkien’s hobbits. The old man must have been similarly surprised to behold a tall, skinny apparition enveloped by white dust reminiscent of the ghost of Christmas past.

Gilbert introduced himself in softly spoken French and asked his new neighbour if he knew anything about the battle of Cambrai during the First World War. Eventually, the Englishman gathered from Gilbert’s explanation that there was little information in French history books because that particular conflict involved only British and German troops. A tormented existence had left Gilbert with many bitter recollections of traumatic events but few cherished memories of that period. A void remained that he sought to resolve before the final days of his eventful life. Unanswered questions plagued him from the blur of upheaval and turmoil that had clouded his early years. Learning of the Englishman’s arrival, he saw his neighbour as a possible resource to generate a true insight into his lost childhood.  

In one of the unopened cartons of books that he had brought over with him, the Englishman had several volumes of The History of the Great War produced by The Waverley Book Company in London. He offered to help and promised to call on him the following day. Unfortunately, some volumes were missing and he was unable to find any reference to the battle at Cambrai. After trawling through various Web sites on the internet, he found an abundance of useful information including an interesting account by Arthur Conan Doyle. Using an on-line translation service, he copied the material and printed off the articles for his neighbour.

The following day, Gilbert welcomed the now presentable Englishman into his house. He introduced him to his wife who acknowledged the visitor with the hint of a smile and a gentle nod of the head but little else. She remained silent throughout the visit. The two men sat at a rectangular wooden table in a large kitchen-living room, where the Englishman tried not to pay too much attention to the obvious distress caused by the old woman’s tremors. She sat in an armchair by the fireplace; her hands, lined with protruding veins, shook constantly. Thanking him for his efforts in acquiring the information, Gilbert offered his new neighbour a glass of wine.

Despite the language barrier, Gilbert began to explain the reasons for his strange enquiry. At the outbreak of the Great War, his father Monsieur André Pinson and his family farmed land near Cambrai between Bourlon and Graincourt. To escape the heavy fighting as the conflict raged closer, they had to evacuate to a safer area. Eventually in the spring of 1919, the Pinsons returned with their two young sons to find their farmhouse partially demolished and the land laid waste by the ferocious engagement of the opposing armies. The constant pounding of shells had reduced scores of towns and villages to rubble and dust. Streets were barely discernible amongst the blackened ruins of part-demolished buildings, shattered walls and charred timbers. During the next two years, the boys worked alongside their parents to renovate the farm buildings and to regenerate the shell-deformed landscape.

Gilbert, the younger of the two boys was born in 1915. He was not old enough to understand, but dutifully shadowed his elder brother, Antoine, in their thankless task. They unearthed numerous vestiges of the conflict: live ammunition including grenades, weapons, corpses, detached body parts and fragments of exploded army vehicles. The horrific experience was a portent of what awaited the brothers during the Second World War when Gilbert would become a prisoner of war and his brother would die during fierce fighting in nearby Arras. Piecing together fragments that he could understand, the Englishman listened patiently to the old man’s life history. Gilbert was using this unique opportunity to narrate and simultaneously put into context an account of events that had surrounded his long-forgotten childhood. At last, he could learn a little more about his roots and the experiences that had influenced the development of his early years.

Stoical in his attitude towards most issues, Gilbert had learned to tolerate the pain and suffering that he had overcome during his lifetime. He now believed that the trauma of his childhood had set the seal on his future. He was beginning to understand how he had acquired the capability of enduring constant hardship. Though never physically strong, mentally he had coped with every obstacle and disappointment that had invaded his personal space: the gruesome horrors of two world wars, his miserable time as a prisoner, the forced labour, his post-war refugee status and a marriage that, despite its longevity, had offered little respite from a depressing existence. Though beset by almost a century of deprivation, he had survived and remained of sound mind. This inner strength had allowed him to stay loyal to his sick wife in her hour of need. The detailed background to his childhood provided by his guest had clarified his raison d’être.

He thanked his visitor who also had gained some satisfaction from his ability to surmount the language difficulties by responding to his neighbour’s request with the translation of a useful document. Effusing entente cordiale from his first neighbourhood contact, the Englishman left the house, unaware that Gilbert’s wife had a far more interesting story to tell. Six years would pass before her remarkable tale would unfold, causing ripples that would surge far beyond the local community. 

Part One

Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

“It must have been a long time ago because so many others have arrived since that moment. I was suffering; the pain was excruciating. I remember someone else being there. It could have been the man or even that dreadful girl. Suddenly, the unbearable agony ceased. I came here and became reunited with my friends.”

“What about your colleague? Did he arrive here at that time?”

“Ah, the strange one who never uttered a single word. I think that he must have moved on at the same time, but in a different direction. I doubt that he would have fit in here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It was his whole demeanour. Though he seemed incapable of any form of communication, it was obvious to me that he was a good man. Everyone here is evil.”

Chapter 1: 1944

Her father, René, had died during the early hours following the night of the incident on the railway track. Young Marcel was normally an odd-job man for the commune and occasionally a farm labourer; today he had adopted the role of gravedigger. Despite his feelings of guilt, the internment was yet another unnecessary result of mortality amongst many recent victims. Death was a frequent visitor at that time. To some degree, it had become the norm. He stood in the background, leaning casually in the shelter of the cemetery’s perimeter wall. With his grubby fingers, he rolled some tobacco in a cigarette paper and licked the edges. Lighting the thin roll-up, he looked across at the handful of mourners. He took a draw, exhaled the smoke and licked his lips. He was more interested in the teenage girl than the sombre ritual.

Fine drizzle from leaden skies prompted a desperate desire amongst those present for the ceremony to finish quickly. Unusually for mid-June, a cutting wind from the northwest swept over the proceedings, stinging the faces of mourners who stood in silence as they witnessed the coffin descend to its final resting place. At the head of the excavated grave, a woman draped in black stood with the teenage girl, also in black.

The girl’s mother reached out a hand to her distressed daughter. She nodded briefly to the few that had attended, silently expressing her gratitude for their presence. With her head held high, she led the girl through the south gate of the graveyard. They walked in silence before reaching the horse and trap that they had tethered by the cemetery wall. Minutes later, they trundled homewards down the lane where they could melt into the peace and solitude of their distant farmhouse. Whilst it was still in view, the girl would turn and look back towards the cemetery, sadness on her tear-stained face. As they approached open countryside, she lowered her head against the damp gusts, wrapping a woollen shawl across her pale features like a nomadic Bedouin in a sandstorm.

After stabling the horse, her mother returned to the house. The hollow ring of her steps on the tiled floor of the entrance hall was strangely more perceptible, echoing the new sensation of emptiness not only in the house, but also in her heart. The daughter took to her bed and sobbed herself to sleep.

A sheaf of chrysanthemums, blooms symbolic of the festival of the dead, had accompanied the coffin. Fallen and forgotten, a single stem lay on the kitchen floor. Before drawing up a chair, the deceased’s widow picked up the flower, placed it on the worn surface of a well-scrubbed table and, with misty eyes, stared at it. Her hopes and future aspirations, inspired by the news of the D-day landings, were scattering like the petals of the flower. It is not meant to be like this, she thought.

The morning after the funeral, the young girl rose early and quietly left the farmhouse. Nothing stirred; a heavy mist hung ominously in the silence of the hour. She glanced about her and hurried towards the barn. She knew what she must do. Her father had been a hero; his death would not be in vain. His revelations earlier that week still gnawed at her soul; the horrors that he had described were slowly consuming her religious beliefs.

After several minutes, she emerged from the barn, patiently looking about her as far as the poor visibility allowed. Before moving, she stood quite still, listening attentively for any sound that might spell danger. An impenetrable stillness enveloped the courtyard as though nothing existed beyond the farm. Beneath her heavy topcoat, she clasped a large cloth bundle close to her body. Swiftly and stealthily, she passed through a wooden gate alongside the barn before blurring into the damp, grey swirls as though swallowed by a vortex.

Although the dense blanket would eclipse her resolute act of vengeance, mists eventually clear to expose all that previously lay hidden. Like the corpse of her father, the consequences of the act that she was about to perform would lie buried, where they would fester undisturbed for almost seventy years.