by Julie Berry
The whole city thrummed with a pulse felt in the bones. The earth rumbled, and its buildings rattled. A dog barked in the street below, and another answered from afar.
An earthquake?
Cold prickled on her skin. Other windows swung open too. She heard Colette stir in bed.
The sound came from the north. On and on it went, a sound like distant boulders tumbling against one another, or, like the clashing of a vast drum brigade.
Guns at the Front, she realized. Guns without letup. Guns to the north. Where James was.
ARES
Handed to the French—March 21, 1918
FINALLY THE MOMENT had come.
By Thursday, March 21, the 15th New York National Guard arrived by train in Connantre, in the region of Givry-en-Argonne, and met up with the rest of their division, which had gone straight there from Saint-Nazaire.
They were given a new name. No longer were they the 15th New York National Guard. They were now the 369th United States Infantry. Or rather, the 369e Régiment d’Infanterie US (RIUS). They’d been handed over to the French Army to fight with them.
The French and British Armies had begged the United States to send supporting reinforcements, but General Pershing had refused to relinquish command of any US troops. They were his responsibility to lead and, as much as possible, to safeguard. He didn’t want Americans used as expendable cannon fodder by non-American generals.
But he could spare a black regiment, to be used as needed.
ARES
Fog—March 21, 1918
THE HEAVY GUNS droned on for hours. Howitzers and field guns, searching for James.
There was nothing to do but wait. No place to go any more safe, nor any less.
Through the smoke and dirt and confusion, the risen sun barely showed itself, until well after seven in the morning, when a lull fell over the battle. The guns stopped. The sky was lighter, wreathed in fog. It hung, cold and damp and heavy, over the trenches. James couldn’t even see Frank Mason, a yard or two away.
The silence, after the guns, was deafening. The fog muffled and muted everything. The air was so wet that breath became a slow drowning.
Low voices began calling out to one another. Cries of “Medic!” and “Stretcher!” pierced the cloud, but they seemed to die before reaching the ears of anyone who could help.
“Mason,” James whispered.
Mason was in his ear. “Quiet,” he hissed. “They’re coming.”
James stripped the clammy dewdrops clinging to his rifle and screwed on the bayonet.
A grenade exploded down the line. Chad and Billy. They’d gone that way. Were they all right? His pulse raced. How could he warn them, without drawing danger down on them all?
They landed softly, when they stormed the trenches. Like the plash of an ice cube dropped in a drink. Dreamlike figures in gray, loaded down with grenades, rifles, and ammo. Their coal-scuttle helmets were painted in camouflage.
Storm troopers. Elite soldiers, heavily armed. They took no prisoners. They only killed.
Two of them. He saw them, but they hadn’t seen him. They swam in and out of view, both carrying pistols ready.
James raised his rifle. They were only a few yards away.
A step sounded. They turned. It was Mason, his back turned. He didn’t see them.
James pulled the trigger.
One German down.
The other turning,
James clearing and cocking,
the pistol clicking,
his own rifle rising,
crack,
the butt of Mason’s gun knocks the German’s gun arm,
if James shoots, he could kill Mason,
guard,
aim,
long thrust,
twist,
kill,
kill,
kill.
A mouth flies open,
blue eyes gaze up into his,
the surprise of robin’s-egg-blue eyes
as a red throat pours blood down a gray uniform.
He’d shot the first storm trooper in the neck. Storm troopers wore armor. Neck and armpits, vulnerable.
“Thanks, mate,” Mason says.
He takes their pistols, Mason does, one for each. Spoils of war. He straps on a sling of grenades. James takes the gun he hands him, still hot, uncocks it, and sticks it in his belt.
They hear it now: the firing lines, under siege. Of course they are, if storm troops are invading the support line.
Chad and Billy run into their traverse.
“You guys all right?” says Chad Browning.
“Where’s McKendrick?” says Billy Nutley.
Another footstep. A smell, a sound.
“Down!” screams Mason.
The jet of flame arcs across the trench. A storm trooper with a flamethrower. Flammenwerfer. Liquid fire strapped to his back, shooting yards from a hose in his hand.
James crouches, his rifle still in his hands. No time for sights. He aims for the face.
The German’s headless body tumbles forward, still spraying fire. Chad screams.
“Fall back!” comes a cry from somewhere. “Fall back!”
Chad writhes on the duckboards. Mason and Nutley dive on top of him. They beat him to quench the flame. The smell of flesh on fire reminds James of food, of cooking meat.
“We need a stretcher.” Billy is pale and panting.
Mason shakes his head. “Never gonna get one here.”
James slings his rifle behind him. “Put him on my back,” he says. “Get him on me, then you fall back. I’ll be right behind you.”
“I’ll do it,” Billy says.
“So you can both get killed?” says James. “You’re too big. Stay low, and get out of here. Billy, you carry my pack. Cover me, all right?”
“He’s right, Bill,” says Mason. “You can’t do it.”
“Put him on me,” James tells Mason, “and get out of here.”
Chad Browning has stopped his screaming. His clothing is half melted away, half fused to his skin. Mason peels off his trench coat, and they wrap Browning in it, then drape him over James’s back. His limp arms flop over James’s shoulders, and his head bumps against his own. His body is light. He seems to weigh no more than a pack.
“Third Section,” calls Frank Mason, its new, undisputed commander. Other familiar forms materialize from the mist.
“Where’s Alph?” asks Mason. “Where’s Sam?”
Vince Rowan shakes his head. “Grenade.”
No more basset hound. It’ll be Wipers all over again. Suicide.
“Dead?” Mason watches their faces. “Right.” He points northward. “Communication trench, this way. Bill, you first, and Mick, then James. Watch for Germans up top. You next, Vince, and I’ll follow behind.”
Billy Nutley, bayonet ready, makes for their retreat. His large back disappears into the mist. Mick Webber, James and cargo, Vince Rowan, and Frank Mason follow. Back toward the east, toward the fog-veiled sunrise, the German guns roar back to life.
ARES
Jesse James—March 21, 1918
THE COMMUNICATIONS TRENCHES were a nightmare. Choked in fog, slick with blood. Stretcher-bearers pushing back to field-dressing stations, jostling with reserves running up to the Front. German storm troopers swarmed over the top. British troops with pistols watched the rim and took out anything that moved through the fog. But they couldn’t spot grenade-throwers.
Chad Browning was all James could think about. Flopping along on his back. He must be in agony. Feisty, funny Chad. Who wouldn’t be a soldier, eh? Oh, it’s a shame to take the pay!
They reached a Red Cross team and handed Chad over. His body burned through the trench coat as though the Flammenwerfer still had him alight. He was alive. Nothing more they c
ould do.
“Third Section. Is that you?”
Clive Mooradian and stocky Benji Packer swam into view.
“Come on, me darlings,” said Clive. “German infantry are following the storm troopers, following the barrage. They’ve taken a section of the firing line, and we’re going to take it back.”
“Firing line?” said Mick. “Storm troops just kicked us out of the support line!”
Private Mooradian shrugged. “Storm troops don’t stick around,” he said. “Let’s get back there before Fritz gets too comfortable and starts rearranging the furniture.”
“Do you chaps know what happened to Sergeant McKendrick?” asked James.
“Wounded, this morning, somebody said,” said Benji Packer. “Badly concussed by a shell blast to the officers’ quarters. He may pull through.”
They followed 2nd Section back toward the front line, through the choking maze of the crowded communication lines. Another grenade dropped into the line, just behind where they’d been.
“That’s it,” Mason declared. “You lads go on. I’m going up top to take out the bastard shooting those grenades. Gimme a boost, Alderidge.”
James froze. “You’ll be a sitting duck up there, Frank.”
“Come on,” cried Benji. “You’re gumming up the line.”
“Let me,” said James. “I’m a better shot, and I don’t have a wife and kid at home.”
“Quit bragging, Jimmy,” snapped Clive. “Who’s it gonna be?”
“We’ll both go,” said Mason. “Jesse James here can take out the Jerries. I’ll cover him.”
“Catch up to us, then, “said Mooradian. “Got ammo? Right. Up you go.”
Billy laced his fingers together and heaved James over the parapet. He landed and flattened himself. He still had fog for cover, but without trench walls beside him, he felt naked and exposed. Once he’d hated the trenches. Now he was lost without them.
Frank Mason sailed up over the top and landed smack on James’s rump.
“Sorry, chappie,” said Frank. “Nothing personal.”
They peered through their rifle sights into the swirling fog.
ARES
Sniper in the Snow—March 21, 1918
WHAT’S IT LIKE, being a sniper in the snow?
The fog was a wall of snow. Such pure whiteness. Like a terrible joke. It blanketed the sounds of death and destruction.
James had fought against being a sniper. But he was one now, like it or not. Snipers need their blinds. Their covers. Their protective plates to shield them while they quietly watch, wait, kill. But now battle engulfed him.
James and Frank inched forward, crawling on their bellies.
“Come on, Fritz, where are you?” whispered Mason.
James held up a hand to silence him. There was so much noise and commotion from heavy guns and swarming soldiers that he couldn’t pick out a footstep or a cracked twig like he could on a midnight watch. But, maybe . . .
There. In the distance. A gray form, creeping. Taking aim with an enormous gun. A rifle grenade launcher.
James aimed for the heart. Down went the shooter.
“Move move move,” hissed Mason. “Now they know we’re here.”
They clutched their rifles and rolled sideways a few yards.
Sure enough, a storm trooper crept through where they’d just been, searching.
Crack went Mason’s pistol. The German’s head snapped sideways. Blood sprouted from his temples.
“Great shot,” murmured James.
“You’re not the only one who knows what to do with a gun.”
They rolled and waited. “They know there’s a trap, now,” Mason whispered.
Nothing moved. But someone was out there. James felt it.
In pantomime, he told Mason: You stay here. Watch. I’ll go this way. You cover me.
Mason nodded.
Inch by inch, James slid to the right until he was three yards from Mason. The fog thinned as the morning sun burned it away. He could see Mason, watching him.
Then he saw what Mason couldn’t see. Looming up behind him. A storm trooper with a rifle trained right on his friend.
No time to swing his own rifle around. With his free left hand, he pulled the German pistol from his belt. Could he shoot with his left?
In one fluid movement, he cocked the pistol and blasted it into the German’s chest.
The fog reclaimed the falling Jerry. But Mason, startled, jumped up on hands and knees, and stood upright.
An incoming whine.
A silver flash.
An explosion, up. A column of dirt and smoke. A bang of percussive air shoving James back, blasting dirt in his face.
When the smoke lifted, and James scrubbed the grit from his eyes, Frank Mason wasn’t there anymore. Just a fire, a helmet, a torn pair of boots, and a little charred prayer book.
DECEMBER 1942
Telegram
THE HEAVY QUIET of night falls over the hotel room.
The fire has died, and the room is nearly black. Only the subtle sheen of the gods offers any challenge to the night.
“Adelaide Sutton Mason,” Aphrodite says. “I remember her. She’d had a hard time of it, growing up. A rough father, who drank. She seemed in great danger of ending up with the wrong sort of man, before Frank came along.” She wiped her eye. “They had three very happy years together. And, of course, two children.”
“Two?” Ares looks up. “Mason’s photograph only had—”
“She’d written to tell him,” says Aphrodite. “She’d fallen pregnant. Remember? His injury? He was home for a while?”
All the male gods present are fathers. Possibly not the best of fathers—the subject is open to debate—but they are not without feeling.
Before their eyes, a scene appears. A doorbell rings. A skinny youth, his bicycle propped against a hitching post at the curb, stands on the front step. An envelope wobbles between his finger and thumb. The young wife whose eyes always get the joke peers around the slowly opening door.
HADES
At the Beach
PRIVATE FRANK MASON tumbled rather abruptly into my realm.
“What happened?” he said aloud. “Where’s James?”
The fog was still thick around him, but the air no longer reeked of smoke and gunpowder. It smelled damp and green. He clambered to his feet and took a step forward.
“James?” he called. “You there?”
There was no sound of shells, no rifle shots ringing. Just the quiet of nature, that isn’t quiet at all, when you listen. Singing birds, buzzing insects, swaying branches.
The fog lifted. He saw himself in a field of dark grasses sprinkled with delicate white flowers. Up ahead he smelled the sea. After so many landlocked, trench-locked months, it beckoned to him.
He began to run.
He reached the sand and looked down to find that his feet were bare, his body loosely dressed in the lightweight trousers and shirt he used to wear, summers, on fishing boats. Damp sand squeezed between his toes, and salty spray blew in his face.
“I’m home,” he said.
The beach was mostly empty. It was early evening, when late afternoon leans toward twilight. A woman slowly walked along the water’s edge, holding a toddler by the hand.
“Oh no,” Frank said. “No, no, no!”
I appeared, then. An old sailor he used to know, ages ago, when he’d first joined a crew.
My presence didn’t surprise him. It rarely does; I’m the one each soul knows will find them in the end.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” He turned to me then. “They got me, the bloody bastards!”
I nodded. “In a sense, yes. They did. But now you’ve got you.”
He sank into the sand and wept. “My poor wife, all alone,” he sobbed. “My li
ttle son, never knowing his daddy. And the baby!” He turned to me imploringly. “Who’s going to look after them?”
“They’ll get very good at looking after each other.”
That wasn’t much comfort. “It’ll be brutal on them,” he said. “You can’t pretend it won’t.”
“It will be brutal on them,” I told him. “You’ll need to send comfort and help. What you would do for them, if you could.”
He looked up. “Can it be done?”
“It can,” I told him, “when desire is strong.”
Frank Mason gazed dejectedly at his approaching family. His son sat down and began shaping a castle out of the sand.
“Take comfort,” I told him. “Remember: sleep brings them closer to you.”
He looked up hopefully.
“So does childhood,” I added. “Little ones see everything.”
Frank Mason Jr. turned toward his father and smiled a drooly smile. In a bound, his father was at his side.
“And watch out for cats,” I told him, by way of goodbye, though I don’t believe he heard me.
HADES
Identity Discs—March 21, 1918
WHEN THEY FOUND James, it was dark.
He was in the relief trenches, hundreds of yards from the place where he’d gone up top to take out the storm troopers. He didn’t know how he got there.
It was clear to the medics, when they finally examined him, that he’d neither eaten nor drunk water at all that day. He lay curled in a dugout, and wouldn’t come out.
But he had to. The Germans had taken their lines. They were pressing hard against the BEF’s Fifth Army. British troops were in full retreat. He’d be a prisoner of war if they didn’t get him out.
He trained a rifle on anyone who tried to make him come out of his dugout. He was lucky not to be shot on the spot by an officer for that. They couldn’t allow their retreat to be slowed, and they couldn’t allow soldiers to fall prisoner and be tortured, maybe give up secrets.