La flamme sous la cendre
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After shooting the ball into no man’s land and shouting ‘Play up, London Irish,’ Edwards was downed by shrapnel and clouds of chlorine gas. If the name of the village Loos did not clue in English lads caught between fear of death and hope for Saturday’s victory back home, the nom régional certainly left them in no doubt where they were headed. It was called Gohelle.
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To plan his next move out of the city, he rushed to his old friend and racing companion Roger Labric, hiding on his building’s rooftop near the Arc de Triomphe with air raid sirens going off over Paris and the SD right on his trail. By night, he moved from roof to roof until he found a skylight at the Salle Pleyel. He broke the glass, unbolted the window and plunged into an office. On his way to the ground floor, he was stopped by a night guard.
‘I’m not a burglar,’ Robert whispered.
‘No, I don’t believe you are,’ the watchman replied. ‘I think you are Monsieur Robert Benoist. You look as though you could use a drink.’
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