Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2)

by Avan Judd Stallard

Now, returned his binocular vision and finally released into the wild, Michel could scarce remember being so joyed by the simple act of breathing fresh air and standing outside, looking at the world. The last time would have been …

  Not that long ago at all, in fact. Yet it felt like years since he had spent an afternoon and evening at Maddy and Percy’s farm in the Vosges Mountains, the day before everything went to hell. Before that rabid killer, Kranz, set off a chain reaction of explosions that slaughtered hundreds in the town of Oraon, which now existed only in name. Before German butchers killed Percy, for which Maddy blamed Michel, and well she might.

  It had been his plan. Percy had yielded to his authority. Now, Maddy would never look at him in the same way. She would never be able to love him without feeling sadness and loss. She had not said it, but whatever they did have, or could have had, was over. The dream—the fantasy he had held onto for so long—had no place in a world of brutal realities.

  A crunching noise. Michel spun and peered through the trees, but it was nearly dark and he could see little. It was the right time for the nocturnal badgers to come out; maybe he would be lucky, see one in the last light. Any excuse to stay out longer.

  He limped forward, toward the noise. He emerged from the trees and saw movement, right there on the road, twenty yards away. Michel stopped at the edge of the copse, and at the same moment the lone animal heard him, stopped, turned.

  Instinctively—from the quiver in his marrow, the aluminum in his mouth and a dozen ways that were pure animal knowing—Michel understood that the creature, the thing in the night, was not a badger.

  It was a German. A lone German out at dinner time, when such creatures never ventured far from a pot of hot sausage and stew.

  It had to be the one she called Yetzel, who preferred to come alone and by foot. The suspicious and dangerous one. The one that marked its territory and then hid its claws. And now it knew something was wrong. It stepped forward, coming for him.

  But maybe it had not seen him, only heard him. He could hide … but it was already too late. It would be drawn to the movement.

  He could run. Away from the farm. Lead the German astray then circle around toward the front and bring him to the rest of the boys who would riddle him with a thousand bullets …

  But he could not run. Not five feet, and certainly not five miles.

  To hell with it. He was a fighter. He would fight …

  But he was weak, still broken, and even with an electrical storm of adrenaline raging in Michel’s chest and a mind committed to violence, he retained enough sense to know.

  I will lose.

  I will die.

  Then she will die. He’ll kill her.

  There was no way out.

  Michel stepped forward onto the road.

  20

  “Axelle, is that you?” said Yetzel.

  The German blinked and peered through the descending curtain of night. His tone changed: “Stop. Who goes there? Identify yourself immediately. I am a German officer. You will identify yourself!”

  Michel stepped onto the edge of the gravel road. He lifted both hands to show he had no weapon. A perfect lie came to him in a moment of inspiration.

  Why, I’m just a farmer from Sint-Elooi.

  It was the neighboring town, not three miles away, far enough for the German to conceivably not know him by sight or name, yet close enough for his presence to be excused. Michel tried to speak. A hot knife of pain lanced his jaw. He squealed.

  His jaw was not yet healed. It was still swollen in the joint and unbearably painful if he tried to open it more than the fraction necessary to drink broth. His tongue was useless. It had forgotten how to form sounds.

  Michel tried again, this time without opening his jaw. The resulting snarl of sibilants was meaningless, no more than an extravagant animal sound.

  “Speak! Identify yourself, right this moment!” said Yetzel.

  The German strode forward. He stopped ten yards from Michel and looked him over. Michel wore old clothes that belonged to Axe’s father, retrieved from the ruins of the family home. He was dressed like any other Belgian who worked the land.

  “Are you a farmer?” said Yetzel. He spoke loudly, like he was talking to an underling or idiot.

  Michel nodded.

  “Then for the last time, identify yourself.” Yetzel clipped his words. His tone was unmistakably one of authority, an officer unaccustomed to repeating himself. “Tell me your name, right now!”

  Michel tried to speak—a simple and common Belgian name came to him, Martin—but he made an incomprehensible sound.

  Yetzel moved closer. He always walked with a long pole; he used it now as a long pointer, stabbing at Michel’s chest.

  “Do you not hear me? I am a German officer. Captain Dudendorff. I tell you to speak your name, yet you grunt like a pig. I will allow you one more chance before I lose my patience. Trust me, you do not want me to lose my patience, little pig man.”

  Yetzel continued in a softer voice, all the more menacing. “Tell me your name and what you are doing here, on the land of Axelle Lancelin, hiding in the bushes.”

  His last words were accompanied by a final forceful thrust of his stick. Michel’s body was turned and he had to step for balance with his injured leg. He felt a stab of pain in his knee and he squealed again, for it was the only sound he could make—such a dumb sound, inarticulate and not unlike a pig, just as the German said.

  The repetition of the noise was too much for Yetzel. “I warned you.”

  He raised up his stick and it hovered a moment in the air, then Yetzel brought it down on Michel, chopping forcefully into his neck. Michel dropped.

  “Are you simple, or insolent? We will find out.”

  Yetzel took the stick in both hands and put all his back into an exaggerated swing. It fell upon Michel’s good shoulder from ahigh, an act of great theater that exceeded the reality of the violence. Yetzel stepped back.

  “Ready to speak?” he said and paused. “No?”

  He moved in and lashed out with his boot, kicking Michel in the rump.

  “I will beat you to death, you mute moron. Speak!”

  He struck with the stick.

  “Damn it, speak!”

  Michel grunted loudly and that only encouraged Yetzel. The stick came down again, then again, then again, Michel making grunting and yelping noises as the German made his own noises: “Speak! Speak!”

  Yetzel stopped, the beating barely begun. He stepped back and dropped the stick. He ran a hand along his brow.

  “No?”

  He unclipped his leather holster and drew his Luger. He pointed it at Michel’s face, aiming between the eyes—eyes that looked squarely at the German.

  “Failure to identify yourself to a German officer is, in my jurisdiction, a capital offence. For the last time, tell me your name.”

  Michel did not squeal or grunt. Perhaps it was best this way. There was nothing on his person to suggest he knew Axe. The German might believe him a mere criminal wandering the deserted and abandoned ruins of the front; or with his damaged face it was not so hard to believe him one of the war’s countless dispossessed, a wretched vagabond with the misfortune of being happened upon at night by a German officer. Axe would not be implicated. She would be safe.

  The German’s aim moved a little to the left. He jerked the trigger and a flash of yellow spurted from the Luger’s snout.

  Pop!

  Michel felt the rush of a bullet passing his cheek. A fragment of gravel ricocheted and stung his back. His eyes stayed with the German. Defiant.

  “No?” said Yetzel.

  The German stepped closer and reoriented his aim to Michel’s face. He took another step and leant in, touching the barrel to Michel’s forehead. He glared at him.

  Michel did nothing. He stared back at the German.

  Just fucking do it and be done, you coward, or I might kill you yet.

  The German stepped back. He was furious. The pisto
l wavered a little.

  “No?”

  He was going to fire this time, kill him, Michel knew it. He was almost relieved.

  “Very well,” said Yetzel. His shoulder twisted and his arm extended.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  A woman’s voice. Michel heard footfalls pounding the gravel.

  “Yetzel, wait!”

  The pistol held in place, aimed at Michel’s face, while the German’s head turned. A figure rushed from the night.

  “Axelle?” said the German.

  “Yes, it’s me! Don’t shoot, please.”

  She ran past Yetzel and to Michel.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  Michel looked at her. He shook his head.

  What has she done?

  “Can you stand?” Axe said, and helped lift Michel to his feet.

  The German watched. When Michel was standing, leaning on the little woman, Yetzel said incredulously, “You know this man?”

  “Of course!”

  No! She has never seen me before, Michel wanted to say. His eyes bore into Axe. He slowly shook his head and silently implored her: It’s not too late. Say I am a thief that has been stealing from your farm. Lie, damn it! With the right lie, only he would be killed.

  Axe looked at him. “Of course I know this man.”

  And Michel knew then: Florence. That bitch has ruined her. She loves me as I love her. Same blind, stupid love that isn’t worth a damn and now it has killed her. The threat of tears tickled the edges of his eyes.

  Axe exhaled. She smiled. “This is Sven Valentijn. My fiancée from Rotterdam.”

  Yetzel slowly lowered his pistol.

  “This man? But he is simple. He does not speak. You are sure? This man?”

  Axe laughed, as if there was lightness and not menace in the air.

  “Yes, Yetzel, I am sure. You see, I was expecting Sven last week, and when he did not show I was desperately worried. So many bad things happen these days. He finally arrived yesterday, once he was well enough to continue his journey. My sweet here hurt his head and hand, and everything is terribly bruised. Oh, and his jaw, he broke his jaw and cannot speak.

  “It was a plane. It flew overhead and spooked the horses pulling his carriage. It overturned and was wrecked. My Sven was lucky to survive. That is why he cannot speak, otherwise there would be no quieting him. He was just out taking a stroll of our farm. He’s going to help me bring some sheep back to these fields, the ones you can see just there,” said Axe, and pointed.

  She turned back to Michel. “Did curiosity get the better of you, my sweet? Or tell me, and be honest, don’t let that silly pride of yours get in the way,” she said playfully, “did you get lost? Is that it, you were just a little lost?”

  Michel slowly nodded his head.

  “I thought so.” She turned back to Yetzel. “We’re sorry if Sven scared you, Yetzel.”

  The German grunted. “Scared? You think this man scared me?”

  “Oh, no, no, forgive me, I misspoke. Just that he surprised you. It’s my fault, sending him out all on his own. But Yetzel, here we are standing in the dark, when there is soup on the boil for dinner. Won’t you come and join us? There is enough for everyone. And I could boil some eggs. You do love my eggs. Is that why you came? I have put a dozen aside.”

  Yetzel spoke as he holstered his pistol, not even bothering to look at Axe. “I did not come for your eggs. Against my better judgment, I came …”

  He paused for a long time. Eventually he exhaled and continued.

  “… to warn you. Our spotters reported a column of soldiers advancing toward Mesen, moving guns and equipment. They plan to attack. It has been expected. They will fail just like they failed to move us an inch in the first and second battle of Ypres, but your farm may be overrun. Or it may be hit by more artillery. If you value your life, you will gather whatever you need and leave. Tonight. You may have been lucky so far, but no one’s luck lasts.”

  Yetzel paused so that he could force a smug grin onto his face. “Or don’t. It’s of no importance to me what you do. I merely warn you as your kommandanturen. It’s a matter for you and this mute fiancée of yours.”

  Yetzel picked up his stick and scowled one last time at Michel. He turned to Axe. “Good bye.” He walked away with long, forceful strides.

  “Thank you for telling us. Good evening, Yetzel,” Axe called after him.

  The German stopped and spun on his heel.

  “I think not. It would be indecorous to continue on such familiar terms, Miss Lancelin. You shall address me by my rank, which, I should not need to remind you, I have earned through the rigors of battle. I will not be disrespected.”

  “Of course, Captain Dudendorff. I’m sorry for the trouble. And thank you. You are most gracious.”

  Axe watched Yetzel disappear into the night. When she turned, Michel was staring at her.

  A truly remarkable woman, thought Michel. Twice now, unbidden, she had saved him. And thus did that bitch, Florence, tighten her grip.

  21

  Michel thought it madness. His face, illuminated by flickering candle light, told her that much. She supposed he would have reasoned with her if he could, but all he had with which to sway her were grunts, lingering looks and frustrated hand gestures.

  But it would not have mattered if he had all the words in the world. She told him, clear and simple: “I’m not leaving. Not until there are troops climbing over my fences. Maybe not even then, Michel. I know it’s stupid. I know! But I can’t. Not again. I won’t. But … but you should.”

  Axe watched Michel’s face. She had surprised him and he was dumbfounded, as dumbfounded as a mute man could be, deprived of gesture and washed of his resolute expression.

  “It is an easy lie. You were my fiancée from the city. You realized you couldn’t take this life and went back. Left me and went back. I mean, who would choose this?” said Axe and gestured to the barn, then she laughed nervously, for she realized the answer was that she had chosen it. He must think her mad.

  “I have good friends in Rotterdam, Michel. The best people; I trust them. They can shelter you. They have done it for others. You can get better there until you are ready to go back to France. Or not go back. Stay in Rotterdam. Wait for the war to end. You would be safe.”

  Axe finished and Michel nodded slowly. She did not know what it meant. “Then you will go?”

  Michel’s lips shaped into a sly smile. He slowly shook his head.

  So he knew she was right, and would not go anyway. Axe began to say more to convince him that he did not owe her anything, that he did not need to stay for honor, loyalty, whatever drove a soldier to do the things he did, but Michel started to shake his head again, slow and determined.

  There was so much resolve in his face—his beaten, scarred face—that Axe did not waste her words and did not insult him. This time she nodded. If Michel wanted to leave, he would. Until then, they were in it together. Axe was glad. More than that. A little happy, a strange feeling at such a time.

  That night, rain came. It pelted the slate roof of the barn, a consistent heavy pattering. The morning was grey with sheets of water blowing diagonal across the sky. It did not take a great strategist to realize it was a temporary reprieve.

  Before any advance began, the Allies would wait until the rain stopped and the ground dried, enough to take at least a first wave of men, horses and mounted guns. Even civilians had learned that much about the war. Though there was plenty of mud across the Somme and Lorraine, and indeed everywhere the Allies fought the Germans, miserable experience had taught that no amount of will and resolve was a match for Belgian mud, the sort of mud that could swallow a tank. The goal was not to stalemate another front. It was to break through and make quick gains.

  The rain continued non-stop. On the second day, Axe looked from the barn door, then turned back. “Another thirty-eight of these and we’ll need an ark.”

  Axe watched Michel smile and chortle heavy b
reaths. Normally he refrained from such movement in his face.

  His jaw must be healing fast. Maybe he will speak soon. I wonder what he sounds like. I wonder what he will have to say … or if he’s just a good soldier and has nothing to say.

  Axe heard the memory of her mother’s voice: “Don’t be so judgmental, Axelle Lancelin! Heavens, how do you expect to find a husband when you make those boys feel so small?”

  Axe smiled. At least this one was not small—not in body, not in spirit. He almost died and had bounced back. If a hole in the head could not stop him, her judgment surely would not. Besides, she wanted to believe that he was more than just a good and brave soldier.

  What more, she did not know and did not guess. Hopefully good things, but it was also possible that once he opened his mouth she might find the opposite. That he was another fool or boor or creep with a special talent for killing and staying alive.

  No. She did not believe that. God, fate, the universe—something had deigned to deliver him to her land. Was it because he needed her, or because she needed him?

  Axe looked at Michel warmly. She was conscious not to let her gaze linger, so she went to the window and looked out at the pelting rain.

  22

  Ernie was furious and he did not know at what. The weather, he supposed. Furious at the stupid weather like every other man who had lived or died on the Western Front. They would have been up and over if not for the rain.

  He had waited for his chance for so long, and while it had not mattered when he was just one man doing his bit however he could, now he needed it desperately.

  He knew how Michel had felt not three weeks earlier when he lost it, stopped caring about living or dying and just wanted to hurt the Germans for what they had done to him. The difference was that he would do this final thing the right way. He would go with the boys and form up how they needed him to form up, do his bit and kill the murdering bastards and if they killed him, so much the better. Wipe his conscience clean by wiping his head clean of brains. He knew there was no soul in there. No soul in any human. Not with what they could do to each other and had done to each other. With what they let others do. What he let others do.