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

by Avan Judd Stallard

  Henry handed a crate to Rat Dick, and he handed it to the next man, Sergeant Lynch.

  “That’s the last of it. Bit over half a day from now, we’ll send those bastards sky high,” the sergeant said in a whisper, pointing up. “All the hard work will be worth it then.”

  “Yeah, sarge,” said Rat Dick, “I’ll say it will.”

  “You two make your way back. It’s all over here but the shouting.”

  Henry and Rat Dick started on the long walk out, passing other men who were staying put to help Sergeant Lynch with the fuse or anything else on the technical side.

  Henry started to feel a little better. The anxiety that had been with him ever since the flood manifested as a physical thing. It felt like some big creature with too many arms had claws wrapped around his organs—around lungs, heart, sphincter and balls.

  With his work done and the prospect of going up top and staying up top, the beast’s grip eased. Henry took the opportunity to fill his chest and scratch his balls and pick the undies from the crack of his ass. He increased his pace, keen to be out for once in daylight.

  Before he took the bend right—the diversion around the now boarded-up section of tunnel that remained filled with mud—he paused and turned, looking for Rat Dick. He spotted him lagging thirty yards behind.

  Henry swung around and took a step, when the beast returned. It gasped and groaned and tightened its grip on Henry’s organs. It was the sound of impending collapse, the croak of the body of the earth moving and readjusting, the mine’s beams and boards crying out in fear.

  Henry launched into a run as the wooded ceiling of the mine began to give way and dirt showered down in great clumps. Suddenly everything went black. Henry was under.

  By the weight pressing down on his body, he knew it was only partial. He was not swallowed. He was not dead and would not die. He pushed his head up and found space and air. Eerie silence matched an eerie dark.

  Henry pulled an arm free and dug out the other, then some of his body and his legs, and eventually managed to haul himself above the dirt. He gathered breath and thoughts and stood up, bashing his head against a ceiling that was decidedly lower than it had been moments before.

  He dropped to his knees. As he waited for the pain to subside, a thought came to him. Henry reached into his pocket and felt out Saint Rasha. He knew without a shadow of doubt that Saint Rasha had saved him a second time. But others did not have Saint Rasha.

  “Rat Dick!” yelled Henry. “Rat Dick!”

  He paused and listened.

  “It’s Henry! Can anyone hear me?”

  “Shh!”

  It was from behind. “Rat Dick? Rat Dick?”

  “Shut up, Henry. Germans will hear us,” said the voice, agitated but hushed. The sound carried clear in the small space which was all that was left of the tunnel.

  Henry crawled forward over dirt, feeling his way. “Rat Dick,” he whispered, “where are you?”

  The response was a cough.

  Henry kept moving and kept whispering. He crawled up a mound of earth and had to flatten his body to get through the gap. He wiggled down the other side.

  “Rat Dick?”

  “Here, Henry.”

  Henry felt his way to Rat Dick’s body. He found Rat Dick’s hand and gripped it.

  “You all right? You hurt?” Henry whispered.

  “Might be a bit. Can’t move.”

  Henry used his hands to search out the black. He felt a structural beam that had come down across Rat Dick’s middle, right where guts and legs met. He felt for Rat Dick’s lower half, but he was buried.

  “How do your legs feel? Anything broken?” said Henry.

  “I … I’m not sure.”

  “Probably the dirt, made ’em go numb. Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out,” said Henry.

  He tried to lift the beam, but it was immovable. He started digging with his hands, scooping dirt away.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got a shovel handy, do you Rat Dick?”

  “Sorry Henry. Not today.”

  “That’s all right. I’m sick of shovels.”

  Henry scraped with his palms and gouged with his fingers. After what he took to be ten or so minutes of digging, his hands hurt. He stopped and felt out his progress. It was as if he had not yet begun.

  “Almost there, mate,” said Henry, and kept digging.

  “Any chance of a fag, Henry?”

  “Ain’t got none.”

  “I do. In my pocket. Dig one out and light it?”

  “But we’re not meant to have a flame down here. For the gas,” said Henry.

  Rat Dick laughed and coughed at the same time. “You’re worried about gas? Mine collapsed, Henry. Gas is least of our worries.”

  “The fellas will be here soon. They’ll dig us out.”

  “They’ll try. But this was a big one. We oughta face up to it, Henry. Good chance we’ll still be down here when it’s time to set the ammonal off.”

  “They wouldn’t do that while we’re inside.” Henry’s voice was shaky, at odds with the certainty of his words.

  “Thirty or forty thousand soldiers waiting to go over the top, Henry. Getting ready for this a long time. Don’t expect they’ll delay for a few sappers. Probably think we’re dead, anyway.”

  “Bullshit. They wouldn’t leave us here.”

  “How about that fag?”

  The bitter look on Henry’s face went unseen as he turned his attention to digging out Rat Dick’s lower body. He eventually got down to his waist and found a pocket. He fished out a little tin case. He cracked it open and felt a bunch of cigarettes and a packet of matches. He held a cigarette with his lips, snapped a match off and struck a flame. The close confines of the collapsed tunnel flickered into sight. He touched the flame to the cigarette and then placed the fag in Rat Dick’s mouth.

  Henry looked around as he let the match burn. He saw a small space that led to black. He saw smashed boards and ripped cables. Mostly, he just saw dirt. As the flame dwindled, Henry looked at Rat Dick. He was pale. His eyes were tired.

  “Thanks Henry. Go ahead, have one.”

  “No, I’ll have one later, when we get out.”

  “All right, Henry. You do that.”

  The flame disappeared, leaving only the red glow from the cigarette. Henry kept digging.

  49

  Michel looked out at the land, searching for exactly what, he did not know. The door of the Faas cottage opened behind him. Michel swung around to see Esmee.

  “Did you feel that?” said Michel.

  “Feel what?” said Esmee.

  “The ground. It shook. You didn’t feel it?”

  “No. Was there artillery?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t hear any. You’re sure you didn’t feel anything?” said Michel.

  “Sometimes I cannot feel my own feet. Come, Godewyn will be excited to see you. This business from yesterday is all he has talked about since last night.”

  Esmee led Michel to the sitting room. Godewyn was seated, reading a book. He looked up. “Huh! In the flesh. I knew it. I knew it!”

  Godewyn slowly got to his feet. “When I came home, I said to Esmee, ‘That man is stubborn and stupid, like a donkey. But cunning, like a fox. And a fox knows how to get out of a trap and find its way home.’ Didn’t I, Esmee?” said Godewyn and glanced around, but Esmee had left the room.

  “Not there. Typical. I tell you, that’s who sneaks around—my Esmee! There one moment, gone the next. Then she silently sneaks up to give me death of fright. No, I had a feeling you would make it back. Go on, sit, sit.”

  Michel sat on the lip of a small armchair.

  “Godewyn, I’m very sorry for what happened. The danger I put you and Axe in. And what you did. You risked everything for me. I’m beyond grateful.”

  “Good. Good. Then you can tell me what it was all about. The colonel, a man named Kranz, what makes him so different from all the others out there? The land is filled with German c
olonels! You meant only that one harm. I saw it in you. I’ve seen that look in young men before.”

  Michel knew he had to tell him something, so why not the truth? The fact was, he still needed Godewyn’s help.

  “He destroyed the Oraon munitions factory. Set the charges that killed two hundred innocents. I was there.”

  Godewyn slumped back in his seat. He stroked his moustache. He did not say anything for some time. Eventually, he pointed to a newspaper on the coffee table.

  “I remember it. A few months back. Read it in the German propaganda that passes for news around here. ‘A great blow landed on the enemy.’ That’s what it said. And you were there …”

  “Yes. I lost someone important to me that day,” said Michel.

  “And you believe this Kranz was behind it.”

  “Not believe, Godewyn. I know. I looked him in the face. Spoke to him. Told him my name as he told me his.”

  “I see. Looked the devil in the eyes and lived to tell the tale. And now you want … well, men are predictable. You want vengeance. Am I right?”

  Michel looked down. The way Godewyn said it made it sound stupid, ignoble.

  “Yes.”

  “Because you were there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you feel guilty.”

  “Yes!”

  “And should you? Did those men die because of you?” said Godewyn.

  Michel exhaled heavily. “One man did. His name was Percy. He was … like a father.”

  Godewyn looked out the window, absently gazing into the distance. “Then I will help you. That is why you came, isn’t it?”

  “That is not … not what I expected you to say.”

  “You thought that because I am a weak old man who’d sooner turn tail than fight, what—that I would counsel you to turn the other cheek? Even cowards like me understand vengeance and justice. I will help you, Michel. If I don’t, you will go in search of this man anyway, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You would get yourself killed,” said Godewyn.

  “Probably.”

  “Which means a man capable of killing hundreds would remain in my country, living like the great Germanic conquering tribes of old.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what choice have I?”

  “I don’t need much—”

  “Huh! ‘Not much,’ says the man who took a drink and swallowed the sea. Go on, go on, tell me what you need. And then I will tell you what I am willing to give.”

  So Michel did, and it was not more than Godewyn was willing to do. He would hide him in his buggy and escort Michel to Kranz’s compound—in broad daylight. Godewyn could then go home while Michel did the rest.

  Esmee came from the kitchen with tea and cake, her timing suspiciously perfect. She said nothing, but Michel knew that she was as much a part of this as Godewyn.

  “Thank you, Esmee,” said Michel, and they both knew that he did not mean for the tea and cake. She nodded.

  Michel and Godewyn sat in silence, drinking tea and eating cake spread with liberal helpings of Esmee’s home-made fig jam.

  When they were finished, Godewyn said, “Shall we?” He stood. “Ah, I suppose you’ll need something. A knife, gun, axe … I don’t know. This is all frightfully new to me.”

  Michel pulled his flick knife from his pocket. “This is all I need. I’m ready.”

  50

  Kranz sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle of a three-car convoy. They passed a cantankerous old man on a buggy whom they forced from the single-lane road. Kranz turned and looked back at the man, who waved his fist and shouted obscenities. The Belgian Army was a bad joke, and what passed for their navy was a handful of nineteenth century merchant ships, but the Belgian people did not lack fighting spirit.

  The convoy continued, passing farms, coming worryingly close to the front. Beyond a few paddocks, a low hill and a narrow forest, tens of thousands of Allied soldiers waited in the trenches. Kranz knew it, and he knew they were clueless about what he had in store for them—just as soon as he finished with this ridiculous distraction.

  His car pulled onto the grass outside a large barn. He exited to the barking of a three-legged dog. Seven soldiers and a lieutenant exited the other vehicles. A woman emerged from the barn.

  “Monster! Enough. Here. Good girl,” she said, then turned her attention to the soldiers. “May I help you?”

  Kranz stepped forward. “You must be Axelle Lancelin.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Excellent. This has started well. I am Colonel Kranz.”

  Her face tried to hide it, but Kranz was too experienced to miss the tell of the eyes and twitch of the mouth. His name meant something to her. Something dire.

  “Have we met before?” said Kranz.

  “No. Never.”

  “Are you certain?” he said. He walked forward, past a patch of brown on the orange dirt and gravel road.

  “We’ve never met before. I’m certain,” said Axe.

  “Very well. Your dog. It is missing a leg. Most unusual.”

  “Is it?”

  Kranz looked at her and smiled. “Miss Lancelin, why is it that you don’t like me, when we have only just met?”

  “I don’t know you,” she said.

  “So you say.”

  It seemed to Kranz that she was not even trying to hide her disdain. He supposed it could be that she was the sort of Belgian who hated all Germans. There were many such people, fearlessly insolent despite threats and beatings.

  “I understand you and Captain Dudendorff were familiar. Is that right?”

  “He sometimes buys eggs from me,” said Axe. Her foot started tapping the dirt.

  “That is not exactly my understanding, Miss Lancelin. Do you deny that you are Captain Dudendorff’s mistress?”

  “A lie!” said Axe.

  Kranz was surprised by the vehemence of her response. Either she was a fine actress or she was truly offended by the suggestion. Perhaps both.

  “Miss Lancelin, I’ve upset you. That was not my intention. Why don’t we start again? Let me explain. It seems Captain Dudendorff is missing. Captain Dudendorff’s soldiers, presently my soldiers, tell me that you and he were very close. He spoke of you affectionately and at great length. Excuse me for saying, but he would not be the first man to follow his lust over his duty.”

  Axe opened her mouth to speak, to rebut the mere suggestion, but Kranz continued before she could.

  “However, as you have made clear, Captain Dudendorff was not your lover, so he is not a deserter. Merely missing. And so here I am, Miss Lancelin, looking for a ‘war hero’, when I have much more important matters to attend to than this inconvenience. As, no doubt, do you. That being the case—”

  “What matters?” said Axe.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What is so important that a missing man, one of your own, becomes an inconvenience?” said Axe.

  Kranz stared at Axe’s face, examining, probing with silence. He smiled.

  “Search the barn! Search the grounds!” he called to his men.

  He walked toward Axe. She met his gaze.

  “Miss Lancelin, I believe you. You are clearly too smart and too … proud to be Captain Dudendorff’s mistress. But there is another man in the Mesen prison who claims you are his mistress. No. That is not the right word. He claims you are his betrothed. That he arrived in town just yesterday and reported to the local authorities to present his papers, and was thrown in a cell for his troubles. I have spoken with him. He has no idea why Captain Dudendorff detained him. Frankly, neither do I.”

  “Sven?” said Axe.

  “Yes, that’s it. Pale, sickly looking young man. Recited the 1907 Geneva Convention. Swore he had broken no crimes. Respectfully asked to be released. Sven.”

  “He came for me,” muttered Axe.

  “It seems he did. Here’s the problem, Miss Lancelin. I’m told that your fiancée arrived some weeks ago. None of the
men ever saw him, but Captain Dudendorff did. Had many an unkind word. So you can understand my confusion.

  “Captain Dudendorff, who appears to have been infatuated with you, is missing. Your fiancée is in prison. There is some other man at large who—well, do you care to tell us who this other man is?”

  Axe’s mouth twisted. She went to say something, but restrained. Her look was murder.

  “Very well. If either of them are here, we will find them. And if not, we always get answers. One way or another.”

  Kranz turned.

  “Lieutenant Pfeiffer, arrest this woman. Escort her to the Mesen prison. We shall see what she knows.”

  Axe did not try to run. She did not fight. She stood perfectly still and waited to be taken.

  Kranz said as an afterthought: “And catch that dog. Have it brought to my compound.”

  “No! You will not touch her!” screamed Axe and wrapped herself around Monster’s head and body.

  Pfeiffer strode toward her.

  “Don’t you dare—” started Axe, but Pfeiffer lashed out with the butt of his pistol. Axe fell to the ground, unconscious.

  The German grabbed Monster by the skin between her shoulders and started dragging. Monster yelped and reeled her head around, snapping at Pfeiffer’s hand. He smashed his pistol on Monster’s head and kept dragging.

  Kranz walked across to where Axe lay sprawled on the ground. He stared at her prostrate form. If there had not been a dribble of blood crossing her temple, she would have looked quite beautiful in her restful state—now that the scowl had been wiped from her face. Kranz wondered what she was hiding.

  The soldiers checked the barn and the grounds of the farm. They reported back that they found nothing, though there were three mattresses laid out in the barn.

  “Lieutenant, I will return tomorrow morning to find out what the girl knows. Until then, treat her well. Let her be with her fiancée. If she has been unfaithful, she will need to rekindle her relationship. Then, we can use it against her.”