The Bullet Garden By Stephen Hunter EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author Name: Stephen Hunter
- Book Genre: Action
- ISBN #
- Edition Language: English
- Date of Publication: February 02, 2023
- File Format: PDF / EPUB
- PDF / EPUB File Size: 8 MB
6–8 June 1944
“No, no,” said Basil St. Florian. “Bren guns. We need the Bren guns. It is
simply not feasible without Bren guns. Surely you understand?”
Yes, Roger understood but he was nevertheless unwilling.
“Our wealth is in our Bren guns. Without Bren guns, we are nothing.
Pah, we are dust, we are cat shit, do you see? Nothing. NOTHING!”
Of course he said “Rien,” for the language was French, as was the
setting, the cellar of a farmhouse outside the rural burg of Tulle,
Department of Corrèze, in the region of Limousin, 250 miles south and east
of Paris. Basil had just dropped in the night before, with an American
“Do you not see,” Basil explained, “that the point in giving you Brens
was to wage war upon the Germans, not to make you powerful politically in
the postwar, after we have pushed Jerry out. FTP Communists, FFL
Gaullists, we do not care, it does not matter, or matter now. What matters
now is that you have to help us push Jerry out.
That was the point of the
Bren guns. We gave them to you for that reason, explicitly, and no other.
You have had them eighteen months and you have never used them once.”
“I will not give you Bren guns,” said Roger, “and that is final. Long live
the Comintern! Long live the Internationale! Long live the great Stalin, the
bear, the man of steel! If you were in Spain, you would understand this
principle. If you—”
“Dear Roger, listen to the American lieutenant here. Do you think the
Americans would have sent a fellow so far as they’ve sent this one just to
tell you lies? This fellow is an actual son of the earth. His pater was a
farmer. He raises wheat and cows and fights red Indians, as in the movies.
He is tall, silent, noble. He is a walking myth. Listen to him.”
He turned to the American and then realized he had, once again,
forgotten the name. It was nothing personal; he just was so busy being
magnificent and British that he couldn’t be troubled by small details, such
as American names.
“I say, Lieutenant, what was the moniker again?” He thought it was
remarkable that the name kept slipping away on him. They had trained
together at Milton Hall outside London for this little picnic for six or so
weeks, but it kept slipping away, and whenever it did, it took Basil wholly
out of where he was and turned his attention to the mystery of its
“My name is Leets,” said Leets, in English, accented in the tones of the
middle plains of his vast homeland, the Minnesota part.
“It’s so strange,” said Basil. “It just goes away. Poof, it’s gone, so
bizarre. Anyhow, tell him.”
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