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About The Siren of Paris
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When he arrives at l'École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux Arts, more ominous signs surface. There are windows covered with tape, sandbags shielding the fronts of important buildings, whispers of Parisian children leaving the city, and gas masks being distributed. Distracted by a blossoming love affair, Marc isn't too worried about his future, and he certainly doesn't expect a Nazi invasion of France.
Marc has a long journey ahead of him. He witnesses, first-hand, the fall of Paris and the departure of the French government. Employed by an ambassador, he visits heads of state, including the horribly obese gray-haired Mussolini and the charismatic Hitler. He witnesses the effects of the tightening vise of occupation, first-hand, as he tries to escape the country. He also participates in the French resistance, spends time in prison camps, and sees the liberation of the concentration camps. During his struggles, he is reunited with the woman he loves, Marie, who speaks passionately of working with the resistance. Is she working for freedom, or is she not to be trusted?
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Excerpt
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June 15,
1940
Saint-Nazaire, France
Saint-Nazaire, France
After breaking camp that morning, the group
drove the last few miles into the port of Saint-Nazaire. Marc studied the
soldiers marching on the road as the truck passed them.
“I thought, Allen, that most left at Dunkirk,”
Marc asked.
“These are the support troops, and other units not
cut off at Dunkirk.”
“But, over the radio, they said
everyone.”
“Of course they did,” Allen said, and then looked
over the side toward Saint Nazaire in the distance. The truck crested the hill,
and Allen saw thousands of men in front of him amassing in fields around the
port city.
“Where are you coming from?” the officer said as
they stopped on the road just outside the city.
“Nantes,” the driver replied.
“Any Germans yet?” the officer sounded more like
the guard of a camp.
“None on the ground, but in the air we had quite a
few close calls.”
“Drive down over there and put the truck in drive,
before you get out,” the soldier said. All along the road by the
beach, soldiers were taking trucks and driving them into the open sea. Marc
watched the odd carnival of men shouting as they drove the trucks and lorries
into the surf.
“Are we siphoning the petrol?” Allen
asked.
“No need. I am nearly empty, anyway,” the officer
said.
“All out back here,” Allen called to the
front.
“Oh hey, and there you go, my lady.” The officer
then jumped from the truck as it drove down the beach into the surf. Just fifty
yards away, another truck drove toward the sea. And all along the shore in front
of them were trucks and vehicles either sticking out of the ocean, or buried in
the sand from the previous high tide.
Marc could not help but be captivated by the
scene. As they walked toward the port, hundreds of trucks and cars laid
abandoned. Many had open hoods and it was clear that they’d been sabotaged. A
large bonfire soared into the sky as quartermasters burned supplies that were to
be left behind. Along the town and docks, the city was overtaken with scores of
fleeing soldiers and refugees.
“Sister, I think we are best heading back to stay
with the other men near the airway,” Allen said to Sister Clayton.
“The children cannot sleep out in the open. I’m
sure the local church can put us up. Even if we have to sleep on a floor, it is
better to be inside,” she protested.
“Well, you could be right, but Marc and I are
going to go back and hang close to the soldiers, because when word comes it is
time to get on a ship, we need to be with them,” Allen said.
“We are not going to be far, but stay in the town
and I am sure we will find you in the morning,” Sister Clayton said as they
separated that day. It was early yet, and the men pouring into the
airfield looked like a ragtag of souls. Marc and Allen ended up walking back
into the port and even taking in a movie to help the time pass. Air raid sirens
made their calls and a plane dived in on the port, but nothing terribly serious
happened that day. Throughout the night, sleeping out in the open with the other
men of the BEF, Marc and Allen noticed the constant flow of new men arriving at
all hours.
It was the afternoon of the following day that
ships came into port. Marc and Allen rushed with the soldiers of the airfield
down to the port, looking for the other members of their convoy from Paris. Long
lines formed as boats took the men out to the ships. A hospital ship arrived and
offered to take men aboard if they abandoned their gear, but they
refused.
“Should I go look for them?” Marc asked
Allen.
“It really is not that important. They are going
to catch a ship by the same dock we are on. It is not as if there are fifty ways
to get out of here. They might have got out to a ship even before we made our
way down here,” Allen said, while waiting in the line.
“You’re right. I never thought about that,” Marc
said. He watched more men pile into the lines down at the port.
At ten that night, the port master shut down the
line. “The lights will draw the planes! Shut off those lights!” he yelled as he
passed the lines. It started to rain, and Marc and Allen crowded
under the eave of a building with a group of soldiers. Several men ran over to
the barrels, and used a tarp to create a small refuge from the soaking.
“Wherever Sister Clayton and the others found to
stay, I sure hope it’s dry,” Allen complained to Marc. Marc pulled at Allen’s
coat and pointed toward the wine barrels.
“Let’s get over by the wine. At least if they’re
hit by a raid, we can get drunk as we die,” Marc joked. They made their way over
to find a dry spot to sleep for the night.
“Boys, time to muster up to the dock,” the shouts
came at four in the morning.
“Holy Mother of God, one bullet, Allen, and we’d
be done for,” Marc said, amazed at just how stupid he’d been to not pay better
attention. The barrels were not wine but paraffin. After joining a
long line of soldiers, Marc and Allen finally boarded the fifth trawler to take
the men out to one of the evacuation ships. Marc looked out to a single-stack
liner as the small vessel took them out over the bay. It was about five decks
high with a sweeping profile. The funnel was dark grayish black, the portholes
blacked out with paint.
“I feel bad, Allen, that we’re separated now from
the others,” Marc said as he looked up the side of the ship.
“Marc, there are going to be dozens of ships. Just
look over there,” Marc pointed to a two-stack liner about a mile away. “No one
is going to be left behind, but I cannot help who, how and when everyone gets
aboard a ship home.”
“Rank and unit?” the officer asked as they crossed
the threshold.
“I am in the diplomatic corps, and so is my friend
here, from the American Embassy,” Marc said. The soldier looked perplexed, as if
he couldn’t decide what to do next. “Like officers, except we’re
civilians working for the embassy,” Marc explained.
“Excellent, yes. Here are your cabin numbers and a
ticket for the dining room,” the officer said.
They made their way down to C Deck and to their
assigned cabin. Allen opened the door and there were already two men inside. One
of the men had a white Angora rabbit on his chest and the second read a book
through his thick glasses.
“Welcome,” said the man with the
rabbit.
“The bottom bunks are yours.” Soon after Marc and
Allen got settled in, another group of men came to the door and had tickets with
the same cabin.
“Sorry, we are all out of room,” Allen said to the
weary young soldier. The hallways filled fast with soldiers trying to get from
deck to deck and cabin to cabin. Each of the men carried a duffle or sack of
some sort with their gear. The voices of commanders pierced the thin wood walls
of the staterooms.
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About David LeRoy
A native of California, David received a BA in Philosophy and Religion at Point
Loma Nazarene College in San Diego. After returning from a European arts study
program, he became interested in the history behind the French Resistance during
World War Two. Writing fiction has become his latest way to explore
philosophical, moral and emotional issues of life. The Siren of Paris is
his first novel. You can visit him at http://www.thesirenofparis.com/.
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