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She knocked but she may as well have spit for all the noise her knuckles made. She switched to a fist, pounding out a tattoo that resonated weakly in the interior.Nothing. A minute, two minutes passed and she tried again. Still nothing. She began to shout and found a rock to increase the volume of her hammering. After another frustrating ten minutes the face of a startled and confused man appeared in the portal."Thank god, please help me, our plane crashed and the others are dead."No reply. She repeated her plea in French, and getting no response she switched despairingly to her limited German. Then the heavy door started to open. As soon as there was enough of a crack the man slid out. Silvie couldn't have been more surprised. The figure before her was as medieval in appearance as the setting: a robed and cowled monk.As confounded as she was by his appearance she knew she must seem equally odd to him. She was dressed for light travel in shorts and a blouse but her clothes had been. Anyway fast forward a good few years and Joe’s father had finished his stint in the UK and the whole family had moved back to the US. I can’t say that I missed Joe that much, because I felt his antics with women were beginning to get embarrassing. You know as we were on the face of it good friends, I was beginning to get painted with the same brush in some peoples’ eyes. Joe kept in touch with me, by mail, writing surprisingly regularly and giving me the sordid details of his sex life, whether I wanted to read about it or not. I wasn’t in the least surprised to hear, about a year after he’d returned to the US, that he’d put a bun in some bird’s oven who he’d met at college. I think he was at what we’d have called university by then. Much to my surprise I learnt that Joe was going to do the right thing by her and he invited me over to the States to be his best man at the nuptials. As, back then, I couldn’t afford the airfare, Joe’s father – who had some influence with the US forces.
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