This is the story of s badly injured American soldier and his encounter with a nurse in the Paris of 1918, a city being attacked by the German’s Paris Gun. He is guided in part of his voyage in the city by the poet Apollinaire who’s death would come, not this day, but just as the war ends. Here, the deadliest shell is fired and the poet hears the voice of Mlle Blanche.

When all was ready, the elevating motor was turned on and the entire preposterous weapon rose up to its firing position. The gunnery officer waited for it to lock into its final elevation, then called on a field telephone to neighboring artillery positions to prepare to fire all along the nearby front. A few moments later, as these guns began to crash forth their fire on his command, he ordered his gunner to fire the Paris gun.

The firing detonation was deafening. The muzzle spewed out a great cloud of burning gas and reddish smoke. The recoil shoved the massive gun back into its cradle, paused, then slid forward. The barrel was lowered so the firing cycle could begin again.

A million pounds of explosive pressure had accelerated the shell to a muzzle velocity of a mile per second, which was well over twice the MV of a standard British Lee-Enfield rifle. Later generations would call this high-supersonic, at Mach 4.5. Just ninety seconds after firing, the shell reached its apogee at over 12 miles in altitude, that is, in the stratosphere. Its velocity was more than halved by its climb through the friction of the lower atmosphere and the gravitational well of the planet. For several seconds its excursion carried it through a near-vacuum, the first man-made object to do so. Then there was the return trajectory, as the shell now began to be buffeted by heavier air, theoretically nosing the aerodynamic shell down as it again accelerated, under the influence of gravity, toward its approaching target. The total travel time was calculated at being just short of three minutes. The impact of the third shell was now just seconds away.

Apollinaire remained immobile, literally alone in his part of the plaza.

Then, the woman’s voice behind him said: “Merci, you have done well. The day is nearly over.”

He did not turn. “What happens now?” he whispered.

“A final test will come for him.”

“Que tombent ces vagues de briques…Will he pass?”

“I do not know. All we were tasked to do was to bring him here to face it.”

Apollinaire, still fixed on the church, said,” I no longer like this place. In fact, I fear it.”

“As well you should.”

“I must leave, then.”

“Oui.”

“If I turn and look, will I see you, finally?”

“You will not turn and look, my friend.”

“Tu as raison, I shall not.”

“It’s touching how you spoke so movingly of the cross on your tomb,” the voice continued.

There was a momentary pause. Then, Apollinaire spoke again. “So soon then.”

“Yes.”

Never looking back, the doomed Poet left the plaza, leaving the church and the voice behind.

It was 4:30 in the afternoon. The shell was an instant away from hitting the Church of Saint-Gervais-and-Saint Protais.

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