Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1945)

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A fragment of shell in the right knee during an engagement of street fighting in Marseilles.” “But you were operated,” Maria reminded him. “You were in the hospital in Hyeres, on the French Riviera.” “That was on account of the bridge accident.” A LOOK of excitement crossed Maria’s ^ face. “Tell about the letter you had from me that 21st of November. . . .” “On the 20th of November,” Jean Pierre said, “my General, Diego Brosset, and I had an awful accident. In the Vosges sector. crossing a bridge over a turbulent river we fell in our jeep ten feet into the river We were caught under the water and under the jeep. My General was killed. His body was found two days later. It was by a miracle that the driver and I escaped with our lives. On the 21st, the next day, Maria wrote me asking me, please, to let her hear from me as quickly as possible because she had had a premonition of danger. . . “I had felt it in my bones,” Maria interrupted. “I could' not eat, I could not sleep. I was like a hunted animal — until after the 20th. . . . “I have not,” Maria continued, “talked to Jean Pierre about the war. I have not asked him a question, not one. He has had enough of war. I want him, while he is with me, to have only fun, only laughing. But there are things I know. I know that he is called,” she teased him, “ ‘the favorite of the Generals and the idol of the G.I.’s. I know that he was awarded his first Croix de Guerre on May, 1940, for a delaying action during a retreat in the Ardennes Forest. I know he was awarded the second one in June, ’44, for an action with an American tank battalion in Italy. But wait, please, a moment . .” Maria rose, went into the next room, came back with an official appearing paper in her hands. She said, “Here is the text of the second citation, an exact translation from the French, which I shall read to you: “ ‘Jean Pierre Aumont, always cheerfully volunteering for dangerous mission. After the break-through of the Gustave line west of Pontecorvo, then during the pursuit of the enemy north of Rome, his missions have been an important help in the liaison between American tanks and one of our French infantry battalions. “‘The 21st of June, 1944, at Radicofani, at the entrance to the province of Toscania, he volunteered to remain on duty for an additional twenty-four hours after the dismissal of his battalion. He took command of a platoon of American tanks whose commanding officer had just been wounded. “ ‘He went on with the progression, manning the machine guns himself in which action he destroyed several nests of enemy resistance, and secured a number of prisoners.’ ” There was, as Maria stopped reading, a moment of silence in that room which suddenly for all its gay trifles of hats, flowering plants, books, boxes of bon-bons, did not seem so far away from enemy nests and machine guns. The silence was broken by Jean Pierre saying, quietly, “Receiving the award is wonderful, of course. However, the greatest compensating factor is the sense of internal satisfaction and, yes, pride, of feeling I had been able to do something useful for my country. . . .” And then Maria, her dark eyes still on his blue ones, “I don’t know how I shall feel when — when he leaves again. I don’t know whether it will be easier, or more difficult. But I do know that I am grateful to God for allowing me to share with him a few more moments. . . .” The End