He tossed the butt of his cigarette away, lay back on the grass, fell asleep. Unopposed, they stormed along a narrow street: men with a flame thrower had gutted a tank: 248’s guns destroyed the thrower in a giant swoosh of flames: on the margin of his mind, beyond the roar, he saw a wire of light, filament: his mind shut around it: he lost track of time: he clamped his jaws. _North_. That was Landel’s scribble. Leaning forward a little, Dennison wet his lips with his tongue. * * * *4* The train was slowing down. Orville considered the green countryside and then, as the train crept along, the streets and houses of Ermenonville, appreciating the simplicity of the village, a few blocks square, scaled to the past, a park, a lake, a swan or two, a rambling château, and rain-wet cobbles. Rain streaked the train windows ... rain, so, let it rain ... rain has meaning here. It’s home again, home, if there is such a place. He was seeing the familiar, outwardly unchanged by war: seeing the old brick/wood house, the mangy Chateaubriand books in the attic, Dad’s poilu hat, the grand piano: certain hours would come alive in certain rooms. It was after two p.m. and the train was late ... wasn’t that Jean standing there by the depot, a bunch of farmers around her? A grey freight car on the siding cut him off, car by car, from the station. The locomotive whistle cemented rain drops together: his face close to the window he waited, counting the passing freight cars, aware too of his compartment: it seemed to rise up around him, threaten: the shabby seat, the shabby suitcase on the shabby carpeting: everything attained a linear dimension: for seconds more, as the engine braked and the cars ground to a stop, he reviewed his trip across Germany, the dangerous jeep ride to Offenburg, a strafing of the German train, the endless check-points, ID problems, the mockingly tedious truck trip into Paris. How could there be so many, many fields and police and hedges strung together? So many, many stops at villages, on sidings? Opening his compartment door, he glared at the platform people, dozens of rain-splattered faces, those blank faces, beseeching faces. Jeannette was standing under the depot eaves, near the entry door, wearing her uniform, bareheaded, a cape about her shoulders. He waved and hollered. Stepping down, a _gendarme_ bumped him, and then her arms were around him, her face against his. "Orville ... Orv, oh, darling!" Claude was there to shake hands in his old way, something brotherly. He was ready to carry the suitcase. She squeezed Orville hard, breathing hard, her face upturned, smiling. Thinking of his filthy mufti, he wanted to break away from her: her cleanliness was difficult to accept: he thought her uniform’s immaculateness might make him dangerously conspicuous. No one noticed. Everyone was busy coming and going. He asked about Lena.