The last breath of Jean Faulong
Patricia Bennett stood in a field close to the village of Venizel on the banks of the river Aisne looking down at the headstone she has just placed there with the help of the mayor and the archivist from nearby Soissons who had come out especially for the occasion. For some reason, she had wanted to do this at night and now she realised why as a cloud moved away from full moon and a translucent white light reflected off the surface of the quietly flowing water and picked out the legend chiselled into the sandstone.
Ci-Gît
Justin FAULONG
MORT POUR LA FRANCE
2 NOV 1918
A 26 ANS
PPL
2 November 2014, Sariac-Magnoac, France. Full moon, around 9 o’clock
The only light was the pale glow of the full moon that sent a shaft slicing between the semi-drawn curtains and illuminating the big iron bedstead in the centre of the room where the sleeping figure of 104 year-old Jean Faulong was breathing his last. It came in rattles and gasps, occasionally lapsing into a regular pattern until his lungs; full of tar and 90 years of cheap tobacco reminded him that they had had enough. Downstairs, a few neighbours were gathered in the chais, sitting silently on the ancient chairs introduced into the house along with 5 year-old Jean in 1914 by Jean’s mother when she first became part of the Faulong family.
Back then, everyone said that Justin Foulong had done the decent thing to marry the young widow of his friend and neighbour Edouard Clement, tragically cut down in the first months of the war. What apparently hadn’t occurred to them, however, was the striking resemblance between young Jean and the man who would soon adopt him. But after a while everyone forgot about Edouard Clement, who became just another bone-white gravestone somewhere in Flanders; Mort Pour La France and Jean Clement simply became Jean Faulong, which he actually had been all along.
Now, everyone knew this would likely be Jean Foulong’s last night on earth. They weren’t sure, of course, but the doctor had assured them that there was a pretty good chance of it.
The chais, in which they were sitting was a large bare room furnished with two enormous mahogany tallboys in which the Faulongs had always kept their crockery and family papers and it was now the only habitable room in the house. Pat had found the chairs on which they were sitting in a pile of old furniture in the barn, underneath half of the roof, which had collapsed years ago, after M. Faulong became unable to look after the farm.
Gradually, after his wife died and he became more infirm, Jean Faulong had retreated, one room at a time from his past, until he only spent time in the chais, that part of the kitchen he could get to and his own bedroom where he had slept all his life. Then everything changed.
One day, an Englishwoman who had bought the farm next door with her husband came over to say hello. She spoke good French and Jean immediately warmed to her. Eventually, it became evident to Pat that M. Faulong was no longer able to look after himself and from their conversations, he had made it quite clear that he would never leave his farm to be incarcerated in a nursing home, so Pat decided to look after him herself, unaware at that time of his back story.
Who, then, were these four good people gathered here in this run-down old farmhouse in the middle of France profonde two hours south of Toulouse, to witness the passing of a man they did not know, who had no apparent family and who, rumour had it, had been a traitor to La Belle France? Two of them are of no particular importance, but there was the doctor, whose job it would be to administer the pain-killers that would alleviate Jean’s suffering and ultimately ease him out of this world; and of course, Patricia, the middle-aged English woman who had taken it upon herself to look after Jean during the last few months of his life.
In fact, apart from the doctor, there no French people there to witness the passing of old Jean Faulong; everyone in the room was English, for, as well as being profonde, this was also deep ex-pat country, full of self-made men from the Midlands and their bottle-blonde wives but also with a smattering of people like Pat; a retired teacher from Sussex who had moved down here on the death of her husband. Not really fitting in with the bottle-blonde brigade, she had created her own life and circle of English friends and tonight a few of them had gathered, largely to keep Patricia company but also because the English community liked a bit of gossip and this promised to be an unusual if slightly morbid night. And they had wine courtesy of M. Faulong who, mysteriously, they thought, had a surprisingly good cellar. In spite of the nationality overload, though, everyone was speaking French for the doctor’s benefit even though he spoke excellent English and they were talking about the unusually bright and full moon that night.
“I read this story,” this was Roger, who had made his money selling yachts, “that during the Hundred Years War, the English decided to attack the French somewhere near Bordeaux and the raiding party had to creep through a vineyard. Unluckily, it was a full moon and the French guards spotted the glint of armour and raised the alarm. The English were all beaten back and the wine from that particular vineyard was thenceforth always called Moon Wine.”
“Have you tried it, then?” Hugo, was ex-military who had retired on a good pension with his wife, Mary and had decided to plant his own vineyard against the advice of all the locals. In spite of this, he had managed to produce a few bottles of fairly thin but drinkable Malbec with the help of Jean-Luc who managed a large estate close to Seissan.
“Yes,” said Roger. “It was about as palatable as your plonk. Bought it in a kind of local shop in Denmark of all places. It was just a regular claret.”
Hugo took a sip of his wine; “So the story was probably bollocks.”
“Probably,” Roger agreed, “I read it on the back of the bottle.” They both sniggered like a couple of schoolboys then relapsed into silence remembering the slight gravity of the situation and sensing the presence of the old man upstairs.
Pat shifted in her seat and coughed lightly as if to gain attention, although everyone was silent.
“I have something to show you,” she said in a low voice, reverting to English; “It’s quite sad.” She got up and went into the shadows at the back of the chais and with some effort, returned to the table with a large block of stone that she rested on her chair. They all read the words inscribed there. The doctor was the first to speak; “Only nine days before the end of the war, how tragic. “
“His father.” Pat added. “I was clearing out the barn and this was buried beneath a stack of rotten timber.”
“I never knew that,” the doctor said. ”Exactly one hundred years, how ironic. All this time and nothing… no mention.”
“I know,” Pat said. “I did try but, well, you know, no one would talk about it.”
Hugo got up from the table to have a closer look at the headstone. “But it’s home made,” he said, “He’s chiselled this himself… or got someone to do it.”
“Himself,” Pat answered. “I don’t know much because he wasn’t a great talker. Apparently, he did this some time in the 1920s but the authorities wouldn’t let him put it up because it wasn’t official.”
“So where is he buried, then?” From Roger this time.
“Well, that’s just it,” said Pat, pausing before adding, “He isn’t.
“What, no known grave?” Hugo said.
“Oui, exactement,” the doctor said, almost wearily it seemed, ”Mort pour La France.”
2 November 1918, somewhere on the Aisne, France. Full moon
There had been continual fighting for months now and Justin Faulong was surprised he was still alive. After the German offensive to capture the Chemin des Dames ridge, the front line had coalesced again and the 4th Infantry Regiment was dug in just north of Soissons. Justin Faulong couldn’t remember the last time he had washed and emerging from his dugout and looking down the trench at his unit, he realised they were all the same. The young men who had marched off – many like himself, from a tiny village in the south of France that no one had ever heard of to catch a train from Lannemezan to Toulouse and then to…. well, they were no longer young men.
The rumour had gone down the line. Now that the Americans were here, there was going to be one last push and that would finish the war. But they had all heard that before. Even so, Justin remembered the last big attack when he had himself rounded up a group of Germans who seemed only too keen on surrendering. They had attacked across fairly open terrain and Justin had run towards the German lines with bullets kicking up dust around him yet somehow feeling invincible. Falling into a shell crater, he took out two grenades and hurled them in the general direction of the German trench and waited for the explosions. It never ceased to amaze him how one always seemed to be fighting alone. There wasn’t a single attack where he hadn’t ended up on his own; he wondered where the coordination of these attacks came from and whether the generals were at all aware that he, Justin Faulong, with his farm in the hamlet of Sariac-Magnoac, had just upheld the honour of La Belle France by hurling two grenades that might or might not have killed some of her enemies? Above the awful din of battle, he heard the twin pops of his grenades, heaved himself over the lip of the shell crater and rushed towards the German lines only a hundred paces or so away. He was vaguely aware of other French soldiers also charging towards the Germans, screaming at the tops of their lungs with bayonets fixed. But Justin never screamed, he was concentrating on keeping the fear of what he might find once he reached the parapet of the German trench deep inside. And suddenly he was there, balanced on the edge of the trench, prepared to shoot or bayonet anyone who got in his way but before he could pull the trigger, the occupants of this section of trench, about 10 men, were all standing there with their hands up in surrender. With no time to process his surprise, he remembered just waving his bayonet and shouting “Allez, allez” at them as they scrambled out of the trench and back towards the French lines. He never knew what became of them after that.
Captain Perez had said he would put him in for a medal but of course he had heard nothing. And now, they were saying that the Germans were on the point of surrendering and it was certainly quiet in this sector for the moment. Normally you could hear the Germans singing or even just talking on a clear night when there was no bombardment. It was like that now with a huge full moon high over the trenches. From where he was standing, Justin wasn’t able to see it but it had flooded the trench with light. Most of his platoon were sleeping, hunched in their greatcoats, some with extra blankets as the nights were turning cold. But there would be no stand-to tonight he thought, there was too much moonlight. Anyone attempting an attack would be clearly visible to both the men in the French trenches and their artillery support. So where was the moon exactly? He moved down the trench, careful not to rouse his sleeping comrades until he got to the sentry; it was Matthieu, a man he had known since they had shared a dugout further up the line. Now Justin was an NCO, he didn’t get to socialise as much as he had once. The sentry post had a metal shield above head height for protection with a slit cut in it to look through. “What’s up?” Justin whispered as he approached. “Nothing,” Matthieu answered. “No hate tonight?” The hate was the nightly bombardment - almost a post-script from the Germans to wish them sweet dreams. “No,” Matthieu said, then contradicting himself; “Something’s up, I don’t like it.”
“Let me look, said Justin, moving Matthieu gently out of the way and looking through the narrow letter box opening. From here he could clearly see the moon, huge and white, just behind the German lines.
Out in No Man’s Land, the rats were busy, crawling in and out of chest cavities, up sleeves, gnawing at bones and scraps of uniform for their abominable nests. Half a mile away, Hans Møller, a Danish conscript who has been called away six months ago from his farm in the marshlands by Rudbøll in what had been Denmark until 1864, was standing on the firestep of his trench, shielded by sandbags and was sighting his Mauser 98 at a distant rat that was silhouetted against the sky above the French lines, crawling over the corpse of a solder long dead but lying in plain sight. “You’ll never get him, Hans,” whispered his friend Werner Schmidt. “You want to bet?” replied Hans, “They used to pay me to do this back home.”
“They pay you to do it here too,” chuckled Werner, “Yes, but not enough,” Hans replied and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the Mauser split the silence of the night and in response, a nervous crackle of small arms started up from various sections of line on both sides. Hans took one last look, “Missed,” he said and they ducked down behind the parapet once more. Meanwhile, the bullet, released from the confines of the cartridge clip took on a life of its own, speeding over No Man’s Land, through the tangles of razor-sharp wire, just missing the rat, which scuttled down the neck of the corpse. At five hundred and fifty yards, in accordance with the specification of the rifle manufacturer, its velocity began to tail off - although it had just enough strength to go right through the slit of the French sentry post and penetrate the left eye of Justin Faulong, killing him outright and smashing him back against the trench wall. At that moment too, the German guns opened up and not more than fifteen seconds later, the trench in which Justin Faulong and Matthieu had been sheltering disappeared.
2 September 2014, Sariac-Magnoac, France. Full moon, around 10 o’clock
“So what are you going to do with it?” asked Hugo. “I’m going to find out where he died and put it up. It was his last wish.” Suddenly, the doctor held up his hand. “Ssshh,” he said, “Listen, yes, he’s calling for you, Pat,” From the bedroom above they could just hear the old man calling a name.”
“But he’s calling Marie?” Roger said. “He thinks I’m his maid,” replied Pat, before walking off down the corridor to the stairs to the first floor. The doctor followed with his bag. Hugo looked at Roger. “No, not yet, we’d better let them get on with it,” he said.
Old Jean Faulong was sitting upright in bed, his pyjama jacket awry, exposing an expansive chest of white hairs. Pat went over to him and straightened him out. His breath was coming in deep gasps and the doctor immediately opened his bag looking for the morphine. Pat soothed the old man, who was becoming more agitated, waving his arms weakly and whispering something with what little breath he had left. Pat leaned closer. The doctor was filling a syringe with morphine. “What’s he saying?” the doctor asked, testing the passage of the drug through the needle. “The stone, the stone,” said Pat, “He wants the stone. Yes, yes, monsieur,” she said, “I’ll bring the stone,” and leaving the doctor to administer the drug, she left the room. In the upstairs corridor, the moon was directly framed in the large left-hand pane of the landing window.
Downstairs, Hugo and Roger had just opened another bottle of Madiran, when Pat came in. “He wants the stone. Hugo, you help me and Roger you come too.” Hugo picked up the stone. Which surprisingly wasn’t as heavy as it looked and they all returned upstairs. As they were ascending the staircase, Roger looked up at the ancient beams of the high roof above them, “Impressive. I’ve never been in here,” he whispered to Pat. “Yeah, well, now I’ve bought it, so you can come again,” she said over her shoulder, leaving Roger briefly open-mouthed behind on the stairs, taking in what it was she had just said.
Once in the bedroom, Hugo stood with the headstone waiting for instructions. They were all gathered round the bed in the dark room illuminated only by the moonlight like a detail from a Flemish painting. “Where do you want the stone, monsieur,” Pat asked. Old M. Faulong was calmer now, but still sitting upright in bed, which Roger thought was impressive given his age. With eyes barely open, he patted the right side of the bed, and Hugo moved in to place the headstone on the counterpane. Slowly, Jean Faulong placed his right hand on the flat surface of the stone and with his thin index finger, traced his own surname and exhaled for the last time.
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