“What’s his name?” she whispered to the Frenchman who watched her.
He hesitated before he answered. “He answers to ‘Tristan.’？” She didn’t challenge him, but she wanted something more.
“It’s important,” she said.
And after hesitating again, he whispered, “Gonzague.”
She nodded, and began speaking to her patient softly, as though he could hear her. The young Frenchman left and she was alone with her patient. She bathed his brow with cool water. He had a heavy brown beard, and she gently stroked his face and one undamaged arm, and then rubbed his hands to increase the circulation. An hour later, he moaned, and slowly opened his eyes.
“You’re safe, Gonzague. You’re going to be all right,” she said in French. He tried to move the leg where he’d been shot, and he moaned again. The bullet had been dug out by someone else before she got there. They’d done a rough job.
“Who are you?” he said in a voice that was more of a groan. His voice was hoarse.
“We came to help you. You’re at Gaston’s farm,” she said, using the code name for the location. “Uncle George sent us,” she added, which meant they’d been sent by the British. He tried to get up and found he couldn’t. Every part of him felt heavy and his wounds like they were on fire. “Try not to move. We’ll get you up later. You’ll be leaving tomorrow, you need to get your strength back tonight.” He nodded and went back to sleep for a while. She gave him another shot for pain, and he woke up two hours later. She offered him a sip of water, and he looked at her and frowned.
“They sent you?” She nodded. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you.” She smiled at him. “I’m a nurse.”
“It’s dangerous for you to be here, and to help me.” She nodded. He had spoken to her in English that time.
“I know. You needed help, badly. Your friends want you to live, and to get you out.” He shrugged as though it didn’t matter and was part of his job. He had been injured many times before, jailed by the Germans, and escaped. He had been underground for two years, moving around France.
“You’re not afraid?” He was intrigued by her as he lay on the mattress and looked up at her. She was very beautiful, and exotic-looking. She shook her head in answer to his question and he could see that she wasn’t afraid. She was very calm as she watched him. She checked his bandages and took his pulse from time to time. “They’ll kill you if they find you with me. You must be very careful when you leave here. You came alone?” She shook her head.
“There are five of us. The others are taking care of your men, and one of the women.” The young boy had been moved to the other room hours before, and he was doing better. The corpsman who came to check on her said that he was eating a meal, which was a good sign.
“How will you leave here?” He was concerned about her, and restless, as she sat beside him and gave him another drink.
“The same way we came. You don’t need to worry about it.”
He smiled as he looked at her. “You’re an angel, dropped from the skies to help us.”
“You have friends far away.” He nodded. He knew who they were. He had done many things for the British intelligence services, not just for those who remained faithful to France. He was a legend in the Resistance.
He slept again for a while, and she could see that he was better when he woke again. The fever was gone, and he sat up on the mattress and looked at her intently. She hadn’t eaten a meal all day because she hadn’t wanted to leave him for an instant, in case he took a turn for the worse. Some of the French boys had brought a crust of bread, some grapes, and a peach, and she had eaten them gratefully and nothing else.
“Are you a doctor?” he asked, intrigued by her. She had told him before but he’d forgotten.
“No, I’m a nurse, with a special unit.” He didn’t ask which unit, and they both knew it was better if he didn’t know.
“Were you assigned to this mission?” She nodded.
“Yes.”
He smiled and looked very handsome when he did. She could see that when he wasn’t injured, dirty, and sick, he was probably a good-looking man, and younger than he appeared. He seemed ten or twenty years older than he was.
“What’s your name?” He could know that at least.
“Louise. Louise Jackson.”
“You’re American?” She nodded. “You must be stationed in England. They came then.” He looked pleased, and then focused on her again. “I will find you one day, Louise Jackson, and come to thank you myself. If you save me now, you will save my country. What you’re doing is important to many people, and to France. There are many of us left, not so many as before, but France will rise again. I will come to you after that.” It sounded grandiose to her and she thought he was delusional from the pain and infection. He didn’t say it, but he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and the gentlest. “You’re in the army?” he asked, still curious, and lucid enough to ask questions. He was a strong man, even though seriously wounded.