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

by Avan Judd Stallard

  But if Rat Dick had Saint Rasha all along, what good had he been? Ever since that first cave-in, Rat Dick said that he and Henry had a bit of good luck and nothing more. That Saint Rasha was cheap junk, a cruel trick played on gullible old Henry.

  Rat Dick was dead and Henry finally realized that he had been right. He stood up and cocked his arm as far back as it would reach. He threw the figurine at the distant barn. It hit with a thud, but did not shatter. Henry screamed: “Arrghh!”

  He jumped into the hole and dug, ignorant of his bloody hands and pain and the outside world, furiously dug and dug and dug until there was a tapping on his shoulder. He swung around and raised the shovel to strike.

  “Henry, I’ve been calling you.”

  Henry dropped the shovel. Labored for breath. Eventually he said, “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

  “What? Of course I came back. Here. Let me have the shovel. You’ve done enough. Let me help. He was one of ours.”

  “You don’t want to … to go? The mines …”

  “If there is not time, there is not time. We will bury him either way,” said Michel.

  He reached a hand across; Henry met his grip. Michel pulled him from the hole, then stepped in. Michel used the shovel as a prop to get his balance. Then he dug.

  Henry lay his back on the dewy grass. He was every kind of exhausted: physically, mentally, emotionally. Even his luck was exhausted, of that he was sure.

  The tiredness—kept at bay through surges of adrenaline, pain and necessity—now swamped him, entreating him to sleep. But Henry knew he had to keep his eyes open, for they were not done. In fact, it seemed they had barely begun.

  72

  There are some types of tired that no amount of will can beat. Henry’s eyes started to close. He flittered on the verge of sleep.

  A sound brought him around. He opened his eyes to the sight of a man walking from the shadows. Henry’s body surged up and he tripped as he tried to find his feet.

  “Henry, it’s all right. Just Ken. Didn’t I tell you?” said Michel. He stopped to mop his brow.

  Ken stepped forward.

  “I am Ken. You are Henry,” said Ken in English.

  “Wh … Who the hell are you?” said Henry, standing.

  “He washed up here, like me. Came through the canals,” said Michel. He dug as he spoke. “He’s one of ours. Labour Corps. Translator.”

  Henry dropped down. “Christ almighty. Anyone else?”

  “Just me and Ken now. The others are gone. They were all Belgian. One Dutchman,” said Michel.

  “You are a soldier?” said Ken.

  When Henry did not respond, Michel said, “Yes, Ken. We have fought many battles together. He’s one of the best.”

  “How did Henry get here? Did he come from the canals?”

  “No. Henry’s a sapper now. Digs tunnels and mines. He dug one all the way to the farm. That’s how we know the whole area is set to explode,” said Michel.

  Ken crouched down next to Henry.

  “How many languages do you speak?” said Ken.

  “One,” said Henry.

  “Which one?” said Ken.

  “English. Wait, what?” said Henry.

  “I make a joke,” said Ken. “It is funny?”

  “It’s funny, Ken,” said Michel, grunting, “but I guess nobody’s in the joking mood.”

  “Ok, Michel. You know, you dig slow for a big man. We should hurry. I will dig. Maybe then we will not die tonight.”

  Michel had dropped the shovel before Ken even finished speaking.

  “Sure. You dig, just for a bit,” said Michel.

  He climbed out of the hole and dropped beside Henry. He grimaced as he rubbed his knee.

  Henry propped himself up. With his face covered in dirt, with his eyes mere slits straining to stay open, with the scowl that showed a few yellowed English teeth and a gap where the front ones were missing, Henry looked like a Tasmanian devil on the losing end of a territorial fight.

  “Just tell me why, Michel. Why’d you do it?” said Henry.

  “Do what?”

  “Run off. Let us think you were dead.”

  “What do you mean? The advance … I … I got caught behind lines,” said Michel. The conviction with which he normally spoke was gone.

  “That’s what you call it? You call that … that bullshit an advance? Clip me and run over Ernie and belt a bunch of your own blokes on the way, and that’s your rotten idea of an advance? If you weren’t already discharged, I’d call it desertion!”

  Michel could not look at Henry. His eyes flickered as partial thoughts and fragments of memories barraged his mind. He had assumed there was an advance … but what he remembered was … Fitz … telling Henry he’d been transferred. Then a moment of revelry with his mates, Ernie and Henry. Then angry soldiers in the trenches.

  Michel’s heart pounded. His mouth was dry.

  “I … don’t remember. What did I do?”

  “You don’t remember? You bloody serious? I’ll tell you. I’ll bloody tell you. After Fitz discharged you, we were—”

  “Wait, stop. Discharged? What do you mean?” said Michel.

  “Discharged. Gave you your marching orders.”

  “From the army? Discharged me from the army?”

  “It wasn’t from a cookery group,” said Henry.

  “You mean …”

  Michel could not finish the question, but Ken, who was listening intently, could: “Michel is not a British soldier?”

  “Not a soldier, that’s right. Major-General Fitzgerald discharged him. Didn’t give no reason. Then we got drunk and Michel lost his bloody mind. Went off the deep end about Maddy and her old man, the one the Germans killed at the dam, started frothing at the mouth. And about Oraon. Not making any sense. Like it was his own fault. I told him he was daft.”

  Henry stopped and looked at Michel.

  “Don’t you remember none of this?”

  Michel could not look Henry in the eye. He stared at the grass. “No.”

  “What then?” said Ken, and continued to dig.

  “He was as drunk as I’ve ever seen a man. Wanted to go give the Germans what-for. We tried to stop him, but there’s no stopping a lunatic. Not a strong one. Give me a backhander and did some trick that put Ernie on his backside, and he was gone. Crazy man screaming in the night. Turns out he quietened down and snuck up the trenches and was about to go over on his own when a couple of the boys pulled him down. He got fisty with them. After that, he did. Went over. We thought he was dead.”

  Michel stood up. “Here, Ken, my turn.”

  Ken handed Michel the shovel and climbed out. “It is enough. We can bury him. What difference is there if mines explode anyway? They must dig everything up.”

  Michel got down and attacked the dirt. “Almost.”

  Ken sat cross-legged. “Not a soldier,” he said to himself. “Michel is not a soldier.”

  Henry got up. He walked toward the barn.

  “Where you going, Henry?” said Ken.

  “Get Saint Rasha. Bury Rat Dick with him. To keep him whole. Least he can do is keep him whole.”

  73

  7 JUNE 2017, BELGIUM

  The early morning was preternaturally quiet in the rubbish-strewn ditches that were the remnants of an advanced canal system centuries in the making. Even little sounds were clear: mud sucking at boots; water ripples rolling across dark glass till they crashed the banks; Michel, Henry and Ken laboring for breath.

  After a slow-going hour, they emerged from the treeline. They waded and crawled through rank mud, over rotting rats and bodies, through paroxysms of pain and cold. None of the three complained or commented—it was all just the stuff of another day of war.

  The craters became so many and frequent that it was a surprise when anything resembled actual land. The canal itself disappeared, then reappeared, then disappeared for good.

  Ken discarded his bow and arrow, for it kept catching on detritus
. Besides, there was little use for such a weapon in the fields of war. All the mud made a steady grip impossible. Ken would rather go unarmed than shoot poorly.

  They crawled onto a bank of mud that served as a vantage. It stank to high hell. Michel rested his rifle in front of him and looked out. He saw nothing—the landscape was empty, stripped of trees, vegetation, features. But he could hear voices, which meant there were trenches and soldiers somewhere ahead.

  Ken glanced at the mud. He scraped a little away. A massive frozen eye stared up at him. He dug more mud then tapped each of Michel and Henry on the shoulder.

  “Horse,” he whispered and pointed.

  It appeared they had mounted its dead, bloated body. Michel and Ken looked and saw he was right. They did not care. They turned back to what was in front of them. A hidden morass of Germans.

  “I heard a British officer say, ‘Already, five million dead horses.’ Five million,” said Ken.

  Michel lent in close and whispered, “Ken, shut the hell up.”

  Ken frowned.

  “Please,” said Michel in his quietest, gentlest voice.

  Ken fell silent.

  Michel thought he could hear the Germans somewhere out to the right. He pointed. Henry shook his head. He pointed at forty-five degrees to the left. There was no way to know with trenches—sound did funny things, turning corners and skirting obstacles. They might both be right: surrounded by Germans.

  “I think I remember,” whispered Ken. “I come, I came, through there.” He pointed straight ahead.

  “Are you sure?” said Michel.

  “No. But yes.” Ken smiled.

  Michel nodded. “As good a way as any.”

  Ken crawled forward. Michel and Henry followed. The voices—just some soldiers talking, chatting about nothing—grew distant. Eventually Ken came to a trench. He poked his head over a fraction, looked left and right, then slithered down and disappeared from view.

  Michel and Henry followed. Ken had already begun creeping forward. He was light on his feet, quiet and agile, whereas the other two moved with a heaviness that could not be shaken off.

  A T-junction became visible. None of the three could be sure, but they all hoped that no-man’s-land was not far beyond. No-man’s-land, the field of death that did not discriminate between Allied and German; where all soldiers lay side by side in peace, rotting; where three men, each from a different nation, might disappear to eventually emerge in another territory, one where death was not a precondition of a prolonged stay.

  Ken reached the end of the trench. He stopped and listened then eased his head round the dirt and branch wall. He looked left then right. Without glancing back, he held his hand behind and gestured for Michel and Henry to come forward.

  Ken took a few quick steps and leapt like a cat, body and arms outstretched. His vertical leap was easily two feet. His chest hit the bank of soil and with his arms he took his body’s weight and slalomed forward, disappearing over the lip.

  Seconds later, his grin appeared. He nodded to Michel and Henry, now waiting. Ken reached down, held out his hand. Michel pushed Henry forward. He took Ken’s grip, jumped an inch, scrambled and kicked, and with Ken’s help his body pulled up and over the parapet.

  Michel stepped out. He was in the middle of the trench when he stopped. He stared at the mud wall and listened. His head turned left, then he looked back up at Ken. There was panic in each man’s eyes. Ken waved him forward.

  Michel stepped backwards till behind the junction. He shook his head and Ken slid from view. Michel held the rifle to his shoulder. He pressed up against the trench wall. He waited, focused on keeping his breathing regular.

  The footsteps, sloppy and heavy, came slowly. Michel closed his eyes. He wanted to pretend he was invisible. Maybe he was. He was so covered in mud that he barely resembled a man.

  He opened his eyes. As he listened to the tired footsteps, Michel wished the soldier would stop. Willed him to stop. He himself was not a soldier, and he was still coming to grips with that revelation. At a minimum, though, he knew that he had no right killing a soldier within his own trenches, probably on the way to take a piss, drink some water, maybe clean the dirt from his ears.

  It was not his war to fight, not now, not anymore. Anything he did would be murder. If he had not been a soldier this whole time, maybe it had all been murder. Is that who or what he had become? A murderer of men?

  If it was, this would be just one more …

  But one too many. He had to stop now before he completely lost his humanity.

  The green of the German uniform came into view. The man walked fully into Michel’s line of sight, not four yards away: point blank range. Michel was so close he could see the youth of the soldier’s face. A boy, not much older than Ken. That was all the Germans had left to fight their war: boys.

  Keep walking. Please keep walking.

  The boy stopped. Surely he did not see Michel. Surely he did not see beyond the moon shadow and veil of mud that hid him. Yet the boy turned his head and stared at the dark. Stared until he saw. His face changed.

  Please, please, please …

  The boy snatched at the rifle hanging from his shoulder. He panicked and jerked at the bolt, sending a live cartridge spilling to the mud. He looked up as he worked the bolt and pushed a new round into the breech.

  Michel watched. He saw fear. He did not want to kill. He merely wanted not to die. He could not have both.

  As the boy brought the loaded rifle to his shoulder, Michel let his own rifle drop. He refused to be a murderer, even if that is what he was.

  He closed his eyes.

  Then the world ended.

  74

  They were two hours gone on the back-trails of farm and forest, roads Godewyn knew and suspected the Germans did not, when the sky to their west lit with red lightning that ran fifteen miles. Thunder followed, thunder that would be heard all the way across the channel in England.

  The horse jumped and whinnied, almost throwing the buggy. From restful sleep, Axe jerked upright and cried out, suddenly awake, suddenly watching the world end—not her world, but the world of thousands of men. Her eyes blazed with the reflected red that did not dissipate, that grew and repeated as the earth shuddered and the power of unimaginably huge explosions shook her body.

  Sven held her. He stared, too.

  “Shh, shh, you’re ok, shh,” he hushed, but there was no hearing his sounds of comfort while the earth ripped apart to spew its guts into the sky, hill after hill, field after field, as if a chain of volcanoes had sprung from the depths of the devil’s subterranean inferno and were erupting.

  Godewyn held Esmee tightly. When finally the explosions subsided, he said, “What have they done?”

  “What they have always done to one another,” said Esmee. And for once there were tears in her eyes.

  In the tray of the buggy, Elmo rocked back and forth, muttering, “… veil of the temple was rent in twain … and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent …”

  Axe’s eyes were locked on the horizon. Suddenly she jerked left then right. She grimaced at the torment in her stomach. She twisted fully around to see the front of the buggy.

  “Where is Michel?” she said.

  When there was no answer, she screamed: “Where is Michel?”

  The exertion put to flight a wild beast of pain that knocked her to her back. She moaned. She cried.

  “I’ll give her some more morphine,” said Godewyn.

  “Godewyn, please,” Axe whispered, “where is he?”

  “He is gone, my sweet, my dear Axe. Gone into the night. Into that. To his Grendel.”

  75

  Between Ypres and Ploegsteert, ten thousand German soldiers lay dead and buried. The scale was more than men could comprehend. It demanded a greater explanation.

  If it had happened in another time, those who survived to observe might have summoned Ares, god of war, and Demeter, goddess of agriculture—summoned the idea of a violent god
child one might call Arotros.

  Yes, only Arotros could explain it: how the fields of war had been furrowed and turned by a god-sized plough, upending planetary crust in unimaginably huge chunks, disintegrating anything solid into millions of pieces, burying men and bits of men and blowing the dust of their bodies so far into the sky that they reached the heavens and became cosmic beings, then gradually fell back to the earth in subsequent days as muddy rain much as a god falls helter-skelter from grace.

  And only gods could explain how some men pulled themselves from the dirt and found body and limb still attached. Felt themselves alive and whole. A miracle, even if some could not see from the sand blasted into their eyes, even if few could hear. When they opened their mouths and called for help, called the names of friends and comrades, they heard only a high, monotonous whine that neither rose nor fell.

  The survivors did not know where they were, or which was toward and which was away from the advancing soldiers. They saw pieces of bodies all through the dirt. They had woken to find it dark and everything gone and nearly everyone dead. They had woken to the ultimate embodiment of the pursuit of a mad dream: the earth itself, become war.

  Those men did not seek to understand, nor wish to. It was for the gods to explain. The gods who did not exist.

  And when the Allied soldiers—men marshalled from all corners of the globe for this fight—did come, the surviving Germans did not fight. Some of them purposefully walked toward the soldiers who came from darkness into darkness. The sooner they were taken, the better.

  Some of the first survivors walked into a hail of gunfire and were cut down, until the charging Allied soldiers realized what they faced. For they too saw the upturned earth and the meat of men scattered across the ground, like heavy lashings of blood and bone fertilizer.

  They saw how the German soldiers were dazed and beat and would never fight again. They saw the men sitting in the dirt, weeping. They did not massacre those men. The massacre was complete.

  One of the Allied soldiers tripping his way forward was an unusually large man wearing a slouch hat. He soon realized he did not need his hands for his rifle. As each man in a German uniform lurched toward him, some with arms raised, others too stunned to remember how to surrender, all of them with the same look of disbelief and confusion, the soldier pointed behind, toward the trenches whence he came, and pushed them on.