Copyright© 1992-2003

Said a lecherous fellow named Shea,
When his prick wouldn't rise for a lay,
"You must seize it, and squeeze it,
And tease it, and please it,
For Rome wasn't built in a day."

My regiment had fought and died those days in early July, 1944. Yet when we finally entered Caen, tired half-starved people began to cheer. Not only that, a few brazen and obviously relieved civilians ventured forth and embraced and gave us hastily picked flowers. Many civilians were weeping, more were dazed from the fury of the fighting. I felt very inadequate, most of the rubble that was left of the city, had been massed bombed only the night before by the Allied air force. The few men under my command gave their share of cigarettes and rations of food to the happy people. One young lad even handed me the head off a home made doll, I hadn't the heart to return it.

Our orders had come early that morning of the 9th, the Maquis, the French Resistance were leading us to the objective. The city offices. It was called "Operation Goodwood", or by us Canadians, "Operation Atlantic". The "Operation" seemed a very fancy word, in my little corner of the battle, I was given objectives. And every one I fought very hard for, we took. Yet as I walked through the rubble of the streets, looking upon the thousands of refugees and huddled persons in dark corners and under debris. My heart went out to them, was all this destruction worth the lives that was taken. Sure the allies had dropped leaflets to warn the city that it was about to be bombed, but even as I walk down the streets and across mounds that were once buildings, I often saw ugly grey bloated bodies. Once we passed an emergency hospital, set up in a monks' refectory, bodies were piled outside it with little dignity, inside the dim and chaotic interior could just be made out. I was in hell!

Thankfully, the distance took little time. I stood behind a corner of a windowless building and followed the pointing finger of the Maquis guide. High in up in the building could just be seen the shadow of crouched figure, a barrel sticking out the door. A sniper! And no doubt, not alone. Unfortunately, most of the Division was sent to the suburbs were large pockets of German resistance held on. The average, sane infantryman hated door-to-door fighting. It was a dangerous, hellious type of fighting. So many obstacles, and around every corner could be a sniper or a company of men just waiting to kill. Damn I wished we had the armour that was promised us by the Brigade Commander.

I had five men left in my section, and sent two around to the right flank. I ordered two to wait and give cover fire as needed, along with our resistance friend who was more than happy with the prospect of killing Germans with his beat up Sten gun. Myself and Corporal Dickson would enter the building.

As soon as the two of us began to dart across the clearing I knew it was a mistake. I felt then heard the shots only when we were half way through the yard. I was grazed by two bullets, yet finally shot through the front door with barely a scratch. Looking behind me, I saw Corporal Dickson laying upon the cobblestones, dead. My men were returning fire, yet I held little faith in that.

I was alone, with an objective ahead of me. Yet a large part of me wanted to curl up into a ball and hide away. Thankfully my duty and the job held my sanity together. Through several messy rooms did I go. Moving double time, I quickly found a stair going up. That was when I got lost! The rooms became darker, the rooms tidier, yet still unclean. My body was exhausted, with my kit strapped to my back and the cumbersome rifle in my hands I soon had too stop to catch my breath. Somewhere above me someone was still firing. I had to get the sniper, it was either him or me.

As I stood catching my breath, I suddenly heard a couple of voices, speaking German, I caught only a word here and their, "mischbrot", "wurstchen", "kase". If I remember correctly, they were talking about food. Yet footsteps were coming closer. Frantically, I quickly ran into the suite of rooms I was standing next to. I found a locked door and effortlessly smashed through it. I stood facing the door I just came through, the broken lock hanging limply. I followed the sound of the voices as they went passed the place I had been standing. I heard them going up, their jack boots making harsh noises against the tile and wooden floors.

Taking a breath I was about to continue with my assignment. Then I heard something, more of a whimper. I spun around, my rifle pointing towards the sound. I saw nothing but a large desk and several chairs and bookcases. But something had to be there!

Slowly with soft step, I came around the edge of the desk. My rifle pointing towards the hole under and behind the desk, the only logical place for a person to be. I hoped it was just a dog, or perhaps another type of animal that had crawled into that small hole. Yet I saw it! A shape! A huddled, dirty woman lay in the fetal position, her face hidden from me. What the hell was I to do? I bent down my face coming closer to the desk opening. She was shivering, perhaps in the damp morning air, or from fear. The woman only wore a thin summer dress and heels. What was she doing here?

With a gentle hand I placed my palm upon her arm hoping I could calm her. Here was a human being, someone that had been tormented by the German occupation and by the Allied air strikes, how did I imagine I could calm her. I was cover in combat gear, not a very calming sight I'm sure. I felt her warm soft skin and she stopped shivering.

"Mlle, are you all right?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I felt sick, I did not want to be there in that dirty room, with enemies only a few feet away, while I tried to comfort a young lady.

She spoke one word before looking up, "ministre?" I saw her face slowly look out from behind the crock of her arm. I saw her pretty round face, large scared eyes, full lips, small nose. She was very pretty. The woman asked me a question, and I could not understand a word. So I improvised, and told her my name, Rock, or rather my nickname. She told me hers, yet I could not pronounce the French version so I shortened it to Lea.

Lea took her hands and arms from her face, sitting up as much as that large desk allowed. Then she smiled at me! So you may ask? Well, after the deaths of friends and the agony of victory, it was almost too much. I saw her looking at my trouble faced, and she began to cry. No I didn't cry, but I still felt the tears running down my cheeks. One of her hands reached out daintily and wiped the tear from my face.