And I gave a full report on what I remember of his wounds to the Inspector. Dominique had a sabre cut to his right
upper arm. A flesh wound, the bone was not affected. It was for that he was given the wound chevron you have spotted sewn on to his left sleeve. But he has a later wound also. His jaw was broken,
he told me by a rifle butt, towards the end of the campaign around Soissons. That was the last time I saw him. He could barely speak but he was determined to go off and rejoin his regiment. He was
very distressed. I think he had had a bad time and knew he was about to have a worse. I believe he knew he would not return. He was returning to the Chemin des Dames as we later called that
disastrous encounter.’
‘And what was his rank, mademoiselle, the last time you saw him?’
‘He had risen to be a Lieutenant Colonel. He was an officer of considerable standing by the end. The uniform in which he last fought – and perhaps died – would have born that
insignia, along with three, possibly four, service chevrons on his right sleeve and two war-wound chevrons on the left. I stitched the second one on myself,’ she said quietly, looking down at
her hands.
She hesitated for a moment and then decided to confide in him. ‘I don’t know how many of the facts of the case they have told you, Commander . . . I want you to know that I have no
motive in claiming Dominique other than concern for his welfare. You have seen his circumstances. It is intolerable that such a man should have to bear that for one more day. I have seen him. I go
every week to the hospital. He does not recognize me. Not yet. But I am assured that memory sometimes does return in these cases. I’m quite certain that I could bring him back to sanity
again. I can care for him . . . I can afford to provide the best care for him. I have told the authorities that I make no claim on any pension or war recompense to which he may be due and I would
insist that any such sums be placed in a bank account in his name and left there. It’s important that you know that.’ She turned her face away from him and murmured, ‘I love him.
I want him here with me. I know I can bring him back.’
Joe nodded, understanding. ‘Tell me, mademoiselle, how well did Dominique speak English?’
She looked at him blankly for a moment. ‘I really have no idea. I never heard him speak English. There was never a reason why he should. Why do you ask?’
‘Someone propounded a theory that, with his Anglo-Saxon looks, the patient in Reims could be an Englishman scooped up by the Germans, processed, misidentified – or not identified at
all – and sent off to a camp in Germany for years. That is why I am here. Passing through Reims on my way south, I was asked to spend a moment or two looking into it. It’s thought
important to check all the possibilities no matter how remote.’
‘He’s French. More particularly, he’s a Parisian.’ The tone was firm, the response that of a businessman clinching a deal. She expected no argument.
Joe handed back the photograph and she put it back in its place, immediately taking another one from the line. ‘And this one is just a snapshot taken by a friend but it shows us
together.’
A youthful, round-faced Mireille, long glossy hair bouncing on to her shoulders, stood, hat on head, gloves on hands, awkwardly accepting the embrace of recognizably the same man though he was
not in uniform but wearing a smart suit and hat and shining boots. Posed as they were in front of the fountain in the centre of the town, they could have been any courting couple walking out on a
Sunday afternoon before the war.
Before he could speak she held up a hand and smiled. ‘Yes, I know this is scarcely proof in the eyes of the unimpressionable Inspector Bonnefoye who gave me quite a speech on the frequency
and positioning of war wounds on returned soldiers.’ The smile widened to a grin. ‘A speech illustrated by charts of the human
upper arm. A flesh wound, the bone was not affected. It was for that he was given the wound chevron you have spotted sewn on to his left sleeve. But he has a later wound also. His jaw was broken,
he told me by a rifle butt, towards the end of the campaign around Soissons. That was the last time I saw him. He could barely speak but he was determined to go off and rejoin his regiment. He was
very distressed. I think he had had a bad time and knew he was about to have a worse. I believe he knew he would not return. He was returning to the Chemin des Dames as we later called that
disastrous encounter.’
‘And what was his rank, mademoiselle, the last time you saw him?’
‘He had risen to be a Lieutenant Colonel. He was an officer of considerable standing by the end. The uniform in which he last fought – and perhaps died – would have born that
insignia, along with three, possibly four, service chevrons on his right sleeve and two war-wound chevrons on the left. I stitched the second one on myself,’ she said quietly, looking down at
her hands.
She hesitated for a moment and then decided to confide in him. ‘I don’t know how many of the facts of the case they have told you, Commander . . . I want you to know that I have no
motive in claiming Dominique other than concern for his welfare. You have seen his circumstances. It is intolerable that such a man should have to bear that for one more day. I have seen him. I go
every week to the hospital. He does not recognize me. Not yet. But I am assured that memory sometimes does return in these cases. I’m quite certain that I could bring him back to sanity
again. I can care for him . . . I can afford to provide the best care for him. I have told the authorities that I make no claim on any pension or war recompense to which he may be due and I would
insist that any such sums be placed in a bank account in his name and left there. It’s important that you know that.’ She turned her face away from him and murmured, ‘I love him.
I want him here with me. I know I can bring him back.’
Joe nodded, understanding. ‘Tell me, mademoiselle, how well did Dominique speak English?’
She looked at him blankly for a moment. ‘I really have no idea. I never heard him speak English. There was never a reason why he should. Why do you ask?’
‘Someone propounded a theory that, with his Anglo-Saxon looks, the patient in Reims could be an Englishman scooped up by the Germans, processed, misidentified – or not identified at
all – and sent off to a camp in Germany for years. That is why I am here. Passing through Reims on my way south, I was asked to spend a moment or two looking into it. It’s thought
important to check all the possibilities no matter how remote.’
‘He’s French. More particularly, he’s a Parisian.’ The tone was firm, the response that of a businessman clinching a deal. She expected no argument.
Joe handed back the photograph and she put it back in its place, immediately taking another one from the line. ‘And this one is just a snapshot taken by a friend but it shows us
together.’
A youthful, round-faced Mireille, long glossy hair bouncing on to her shoulders, stood, hat on head, gloves on hands, awkwardly accepting the embrace of recognizably the same man though he was
not in uniform but wearing a smart suit and hat and shining boots. Posed as they were in front of the fountain in the centre of the town, they could have been any courting couple walking out on a
Sunday afternoon before the war.
Before he could speak she held up a hand and smiled. ‘Yes, I know this is scarcely proof in the eyes of the unimpressionable Inspector Bonnefoye who gave me quite a speech on the frequency
and positioning of war wounds on returned soldiers.’ The smile widened to a grin. ‘A speech illustrated by charts of the human
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