Ernie huddled in his recess carved from the side of the dugout, a roofed section of trench that let in drips, dribbles and, in places, veritable waterfalls of water. He tried to wrap a tarp around his body to stop himself getting wetter. Eventually he worked out that he simply could not cover his whole body. He stopped trying and surrendered to the shivers as he stared absently at the trench wall.
All I had to do was land one decent punch, and I couldn’t. Or if I’d had any sense and not stood there like a stunned mullet, like a giant moron and watched that cold bastard kill the guard and then Vicq … Why’d you stand there? Just stand there? A thousand things I could have done, and I stood there.
Ernie shook his head. He had asked that question—why, why, why—a thousand times and every time the same answer: don’t know, don’t know, don’t know. He could not remember what was in his head when it happened. It was as if he’d not really been there, as if he’d just heard about it afterwards.
That’s bullshit. Bullshit. I don’t want to remember. If I remembered I’d know what a fucking coward I am. I could’ve got down from that truck and I didn’t. Stayed hid. One little fuse that set it all off. One. All those rows of shells. Thousands upon thousands.
The old man’s never been scared of anything. Jack and Dean, too. Not nothing. They did their bit at Verdun. Died with their heads held high like I should have.
He’ll be so fucking ashamed of me. Two good sons and both of them dead. One living disgrace.
The image of Oraon going up in flames played in Ernie’s mind. He heard explosions in the distance that became, in his dissociative state, the explosions he heard that night—explosions that left Oraon as a piece of scarified earth littered with the bones of two hundred dead. Ernie stared at the muddy trench wall and saw reds and oranges, colors of men and women burning in their beds.
I let him drive me a hundred miles and did nothing. Less than nothing. I hid. Stayed quiet. How many times did he slow down and get waved through checkpoints? Ten? Maybe ten times I could have got out and ripped the door off its hinges and wrung his scrawny fucking neck.
An old man half my size. I knew when he stopped at the end that he was stopped. You knew, Ernie. Don’t bullshit. Don’t bullshit, mate. You knew and stayed hid.
Ernie’s shivering from the cold had stopped. He felt heat in his chest and face. His hand balled into a fist and it shook.
How long till you found the guts to get out? A minute?
Yeah, you knew. You knew.
He was all the way gone, how you wanted it. If I’d got out sooner, even if he come back and killed me, that’s all right, those soldiers would have known. It’s all the warning they needed. Would have known what they were in for and shot the bastard dead, saved themselves.
Five of them. Five’s a lot of sons. If I got out of that truck and had any guts …
Just do my bit and then it’s done. Do my bit.
But this rain …
Do my bit, once this fucking rain stops. Fucking rain …
He pounded his fist into the wall of wet earth.
“Fucking rain.”
His fist slammed harder into the mud and left a huge indent. He kept pounding and his muttering became louder—“Fucking rain, fucking rain”—until there was snot dribbling from his nose. Water and salty tears mixed hot and cold along his cheeks and chin and he screamed, “Fucking rain! Fucking rain!” without knowing what his words meant anymore.
“Oi! You good down there, big fella?” came the voice from an unseen soldier further up the line.
Ernie looked up and snapped to the present. He stared and blinked. Wiped his face.
He had to hold it together, just a bit longer.
“Say, Ern! You right, mate?” called the voice. It was Warmington.
“Yeah!” hollered Ernie. “Reckon I got a whiff of that gas this morning, the bastards. Done me nose and throat in. I’ll be right.”
I’ll be right.
Rain’s easing.
Soon enough now.
23
Michel walked across to the big door and peered out. Ahead, the green lawn had become a single surface of rippling water that continued unbroken to the crater, filled to overflowing.
A gust of wind blew rain into Michel’s face. He hauled the door shut and went back to the small fire burning in a brick hearth. Monster settled down with him.
That afternoon, the rain eased. It stopped altogether in the evening. The following three days were clear skies and sunshine. The water began to drain away, feeding into the broken system of canals that defined Belgian Flanders.
By the fourth morning the fields were dry enough to start the work of cleaning up. Michel had been improving fast, and now that he did not need to hide himself—wrapped, as he was, in the protective lie of being Axe’s fiancée—he could move freely and help with some of the jobs. It did him good, working out the decrepitude that came with weeks of inactivity.
Axe, accompanied by Monster, did her best to salvage the cursed vegetable garden that had now been subjected to the ravages of a goat and the hardship of water-logging. It was a mess.
Michel left her to it. He held no delusions about being a gardener; he knew he lacked the patience and finesse.
He was in a southern paddock littered with fallen limbs, working at a branch with a hand saw. His plan was to separate it into three manageable pieces and then drag it back to the woodpile near the barn. Michel was acutely aware that not even one month earlier he could have done it in two trips. Perhaps one, if he was angry enough.
Still, he was improving fast—his knee did not bother him that much, same with his shoulder, and his head no longer ached. His wrist and knuckles were tingly but fine. Even his jaw had finally started to come good.
Godewyn had been over earlier in the week. He had emerged dripping wet from a curtain of rain with a casserole Esmee prepared. The Faas’s knew that Axe and Michel were doing it tough in terms of food and comfort, so they did what they could.
Godewyn had examined Michel and recommended he wait a few more days before moving on to chewing solids and speaking. But he could slurp the casserole. The little meat in it was so soft it broke apart and slid down his throat. It was wonderful.
The work of sawing had given Michel an appetite. As he pushed the blade back and forth, he thought about lunch. About what it could be. Those rabbits. If he caught one he could take it to Esmee and she would turn it into a casserole.
It was not that he didn’t appreciate Axe’s cooking. It had kept him alive and healthy, but it was plain and workmanlike and carried little flavor. Now, he was properly hungry.
Michel licked his lips and noticed that he had stopped work. He stood there like an idiot, staring at the branch and saw, thinking about rabbit and his gut. He laughed—opened his mouth, forgot his jaw and laughed.
There was a twinge in the jaw socket. Michel suddenly realized what he had done. He had moved his jaw, meant to be immobile.
Michel felt his face with his hand. He felt his smile and felt beneath to the bone, the bone that tingled and the socket that twinged, and that was all. No sharp, dagger-like pain.
He laughed. Laughed heartily. Yes, damn it, he could move his jaw, open his mouth, smile and swallow and laugh, and that meant … he could chew!
He would not be foolish. He would start gently. He would finish cutting the branch, then he would fetch Axe’s rifle and hunt. He would snipe a rabbit if he could, and if not rabbit then duck or pigeon or anything with meat on its carcass. He would take it straight over to Esmee and ask her—ask her with spoken words!—to please cook him a casserole.
Then he would eat it, the entire thing, every morsel. And he would be full and he would smile and tell Godewyn what a wonderful cook his wife was and that Belgian rabbit—for he would get that rabbit—was the most delicious in all the world. Oh yes, he would … but Michel’s train of thought skipped as barking penetrated his reverie, and he realized he was once again staring at branch and saw, thinki
ng frivolous thoughts.
Barking …
Michel dropped the saw and ran. His limp disappeared as he picked up pace. He tasted the familiar tang of fight in his mouth, a bitter taste unlike any hunger, for barking meant the German was back. If he touched her, laid one hand on her, he would kill him a dozen different ways.
Above the pounding of his footfalls he heard voices. Male and female. Growing louder.
Though the words remained indistinct, he could tell they were arguing. Michel ran faster. As he rounded the corner of the barn his legs slipped from under him on the slimy grass and he crashed to the ground. Axe spun around.
“Michel!”
He was straight up. He lunged forward but then stopped. The man—it was not the German, not the one she called Yetzel.
24
Axe realized her mistake immediately. Her mind found a solution almost as quickly.
“Sven-Michel, are you all right?” she said in German. She went to him.
Michel’s chest heaved. Mud streaked one side of his body. His eyes were huge and dangerous.
“What are you doing running about? You will hurt yourself. Are you all right?”
Michel’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Axe. He nodded an uncomprehending nod.
Elmo spat on the ground.
“You speak to him in German. In German!” Elmo said in Dutch. “Whore. Traitor and whore. Like a bandit she lies in wait. Multiplies the unfaithful among men. Moffenhoer. Do you know that word of your German lover? Do you know it, slut? Moffenhoer!”
Michel certainly knew it. He strode forward with long steps. Axe tried to restrain him but could not.
“The lips of the immoral woman drip honey,” declaimed Elmo. “Her mouth is smoother than oil! She is bitter as wormwood! Sharp as a two-edged sword! Her feet go down to death! Her steps lay hold of hell!”
Michel was almost upon Elmo. The little Belgian stepped back, nearly tripping over his own legs.
“Stay away!” said Elmo.
“Michel, no!” yelled Axe.
Michel’s left hand shot out and closed on Elmo’s throat. Both Elmo’s hands grabbed at Michel’s arm as skin spilled over the Frenchman’s grip like cake from a baking tin. Elmo wheezed and flailed.
Axe grabbed at Michel’s arm, but despite all he had been through Michel remained strong. Or at least he was strong at that moment, driven to rage. His arm did not move and his grip did not slacken.
“I should kill you,” said Michel in German, speaking through his bared teeth. “Fucking kill you!”
And he was—he was gradually squeezing the life out of Elmo, who would have dropped to his knees had Michel not kept him aloft.
Axe realized that she could no more free Michel’s grip than pry a Rottweiler from a poodle. She moved around so that she was in front of Elmo, so Michel would see her face.
“Michel! Let him go. Do that for me. For me, Michel. Let him go.” Axe’s voice dropped to a calm completely at odds with the situation. “Let him go, Michel. Please. Please.”
Michel blinked and let go. Elmo dropped to the ground.
Michel kept blinking and squinting like he had looked into the sun. He stepped back until he was twenty yards away. The rage was gone and Axe could see that the man had returned, that the man realized what he had done, how close he been to killing someone over words.
Axe did not try to help Elmo. The last time she did that he had only abused her. After a few minutes, Elmo got to his feet. He massaged his throat and shook his head.
“Roeselare.” He plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper that he shook. “I will see you in Roeselare.”
Elmo walked away.
Axe went to Michel. She touched him gently at the elbow and looked up at his face. “You found your voice,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Michel said slowly, the edges of his words fuzzy. “I’m sorry. I could have killed him. I might have.”
“You didn’t. You just scared him,” said Axe. “I take it you know that word he used?”
“Yes. And you are not that. You are far from that,” Michel said with emphasis.
“A whore? No. Perhaps other things, but not that.”
“You kept me alive. You continue to risk your life for me. I wish I could have before, but—”
“Michel, you don’t need to thank me. You are a soldier. You’re fighting a war to free both our countries. We owe you everything.”
“Not as much as I owe you. My life. I owe you my life.”
Axe looked at his face, at the handsomeness behind the scars and blemishes. Perhaps he is more than just muscle and momentum, she thought.
“That was the thief, the neighbor trying to steal your land?” said Michel.
Axe nodded.
“He said Roeselare. It’s a city. I’ve heard of it. What is there?”
“The regional court. Elmo is bringing an action against me. Suing me for my land, using that piece of fraudulent paper as proof of his lie. He has a date. In two weeks, with the blessing of that court, he is going to take my farm. Or so he says,” said Axe.
“Then perhaps I should have killed him.”
Axe stared at Michel. His face was impassive. She could not tell if his was a dry wit—or if he meant every word.
25
“Here. The last of the coffee,” said Axe and handed Michel an enamel cup filled with steaming black liquid gold. “Now that Yetzel knows my ‘fiancée’ is here, I don’t expect to see any more gifts of coffee.” She smiled drolly and sipped from her own cup.
Michel stared vacantly at the steam wafting past his eyes. “I won’t let it happen. It’s not right.”
“Right? No, but what does right matter? Isn’t that the whole point of making war? Countries and their men get to forget the rules and take what they want, then we pick up the pieces and pretend everything is back to normal and fine. As if anything that has happened these last three years has been remotely right.”
“Hmph. And people say I’m a pessimist …”
“I hate that word. I’m a realist. A brutal realist, that’s what Sven calls me. What’s the point of telling yourself lies? They only lead to more lies. Tell enough, and you can even justify starting a war.”
“Yes; yes, you’re right. But I suppose sometimes the truth is so fucking painful that—” Michel stopped. He looked up. “Shit, I mean … sorry. I shouldn’t say that. Been a soldier too long. Sorry.”
Axe laughed. “For swearing? You don’t think I’ve ever heard bad words? I grew up on a farm, Michel. I’ve even heard animals swear. I’m no dame. You can speak naturally with me. In my eyes, all words are equal. It’s how you use them that counts.”
“All right. Yes. Then … then fuck Elmo. He’ll go to Roeselare and be made to look a fool.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. That piece of paper Elmo likes to wave around, it has my father’s name and a signature. It looks real. The court will trust a man with a fraudulent contract over the word of an unmarried woman. That hasn’t changed. He will probably win.”
“But a contract must have a witness. It is so in France, it must be the same here. What about the witness? Who is the witness?”
“There is a signature. It’s in the name of Dieter Wiske, the clerk from Mesen town hall. It makes sense. Changes to property ownership have to be registered there, so the clerk is the one who witnesses most contracts.”
“Then find him! He will tell the truth.”
“What is the saying, dead men tell no secrets?” said Axe.
Michel closed his eyes and sighed.
“The clerk died when the town hall was hit. Smashed to pieces, then it burned, as if one of them wasn’t enough. Godewyn was in town that day.”
Axe shook her head.
“Dieter was alive when the fire began. Godewyn says they heard him. He was trapped under the rubble and called out. They tried to get to him, but the fire was too big and fast. Godewyn thinks the smoke probably took him before the fl
ames.
“He and his records are gone. Half the town is gone. And the other half, completely unscathed. You will see. It’s like a line was drawn on a map and that is where they stopped with their bombs. It is almost more than … I don’t know. It doesn’t seem real.”
“Sounds real enough,” said Michel. He stroked the little flat piece of his skull, as if coaxing a thought from the hole in his head. “We must do something. Will the German help?”
“Yetzel? Not now. I’d risk my life just by asking. Men like him do not take to being scorned. Whatever he imagined for us, that’s resentment and anger now.”
“Then what?” said Michel. “How do we prove the little weasel a liar?”
“Prove him a liar? I can’t. It’s not possible. Not outright. But there may be something. Elmo says that I am the one who is lying, because my father put it all in a letter. He said that he knows for a fact that father was writing to me to explain why he was selling. But I never received a letter, Michel.”
“Because he is lying!”
Michel’s whole body joined the exclamation, rocking the precious liquid in his mug so that he spilled black onto black dirt. Michel looked down and could see no difference.
“It’s more than that, Michel. It’s a lie I may be able to catch him in. My father, he did write letters. Long letters filled with words that he would never use on the farm or in town. He wrote them to his brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins, old acquaintances. And to me once I moved to Rotterdam.
“Always, there was a letter on the go. After dinner each evening, he wrote. Maybe five minutes if he was tired, or sometimes a whole hour. But I never once saw him start and finish a letter in the same day. He would stop in the middle of a paragraph or sentence if he got tired. In the middle of a word sometimes! Most letters took him a week or more. He dated them when he began, and dated them at the end when he signed his name.”
Michel continued to stare at Axe. He did not appear to understand the significance of what she was telling him.
“Elmo says father was writing a letter, and he swears that letter was to me. He swears father was telling me about the sale. If I can get him to say that in court at Roeselare, and then I can show whatever letter father was writing, I can prove him a liar.”
Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2) Page 10
