Fiona Hood-Stewart - The Stolen Years

He turned and looked at the girl, still fast asleep, wondering if he should leave her money. She might be insulted. On the other hand, perhaps it was expected. In the end, he found an empty jam jar and stuffed some bills and a note inside, that read Thanks for a wonderful night. Please buy something to remember it by. Running down the rickety stairs, he avoided the weary gray-haired concierge who mumbled crossly as she swept the remnants of the previous night from the dingy hall.

As soon as he stepped into the street, he realized the city was still celebrating, drunk with relief. He stared at the crowds and wondered how he was going to find the others. He made his way down the Rue Gambetta, through the bombed buildings and debris, and headed for the Boulingrin, a restaurant he had heard Colonel Donovan say had the best French fries in town.

Arriving at the bistro, he peered through a throng of Allied uniforms and girls in their Sunday best, hanging at their heros’ necks. Determinedly, he made his way slowly but persistently to the counter, where he managed to squeeze into an empty spot. He was immediately handed a glass of champagne. He smiled his thanks to the bartender and turned, hoping to begin a conversation with the two British officers standing next to him.

But before he could speak, someone grabbed his arm. Once she had his attention, a pretty redhead with a provocative smile and ruby lips reached up and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Oy, you’re with me,” an outraged cockney voice exclaimed.

“Non!” the young woman exclaimed with a provocative pout. “Moi, I like Américains.” As she gazed up at Gavin and slipped her arms around his neck, the man’s face reddened angrily.

“Oh ye do, do ye? Let’s see how ye like this.” Gavin tried to disengage himself from the girl’s grasp, but the more he tried the more tightly she clung. As the full force of the man’s fist crashed into the right side of his face, Gavin reeled back, flying against the counter with the girl squealing on top of him. He picked himself up painfully, his right eye closing fast. Through the other he saw four marines rising, balling their fists, while two British Tommy’s prepared to back their mate. Then all hell broke loose.

One marine swung at the officer beside him, and after that it was mayhem. Chairs flew, bottles crashed, girls screamed and waiters yelled. The last thing he saw before being knocked out cold was the barman, swearing rapidly and smashing an empty champagne bottle over the head of a drunk marine.

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