The Ethereal Squadron: A Wartime Fantasy (The Sorcerers of Verdun)

by Shami Stovall

  “I can’t,” Geist snapped, ripping her limb away from Cross. “This isn’t working. It’s the gas. It did this.” She held her arm close to her chest and scrunched her eyes shut. The gas had touched her for but a second.

  “Gas doesn’t make injuries like this.”

  “It was magic. It was… sinister.” Geist’s voice trailed off. Cross stood a breath closer.

  “If it was magic, I should be able to heal it. It must be something else or—”

  Geist shook her head. “No. You weren’t there. There’s no doubt in my mind. It’s tainted me.”

  When Cross reached to examine the arm a second time, Geist shot her a grim glower. What use was it for Cross to look at the mark? The tiny injury didn’t require her attention. It would be hidden by the long sleeve of Geist’s uniform. She didn’t want to dwell on it any further.

  “Scars don’t taint you,” Cross intoned.

  “This is different. Something worse than a scar. It killed my whole team.”

  It killed my whole team. Geist hadn’t meant to blurt out something so macabre. But what else could she say? Cross didn’t understand.

  Silence settled between them. Cross brought a hand to her cheek and frowned.

  “The weight of suffering may never go away,” she said, “but it’s the strength you derive from carrying it that matters.”

  Geist sighed and turned her gaze to the window. “I don’t need this right now.”

  She can keep her nonsense poetry for the shell-shocked soldiers.

  Cross placed a hand on Geist’s shoulder and drew her in for a gentle embrace. Geist, confused and stiff, bunched her shoulders up around her neck.

  “You’re so strong already,” Cross whispered into the nape of Geist’s neck. “I can only imagine what you’ve gone through in your life. Forgive me.”

  “Cross… This is inappropriate.” Geist awkwardly patted Cross on the back with her one free arm. “You have nothing to apologize for. Just finish the examination. C’mon now, get up.”

  “You’re my responsibility. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for my intervention. I should’ve thought this all through.”

  “Stop this. If you hadn’t, I would’ve just found another way to—”

  The door’s lock clicked without a key, causing both Cross and Geist to tense. The door flew open half a second later and a man burst in without knocking. In the remaining half a second that Geist had to comprehend the situation, she held Cross close, keeping the nurse between her and the soldier, hiding her curves against the other woman.

  “Hey, Cross,” the man said. “I need something for—whoa!” He tucked his hands into his khaki trouser pockets and cocked a smirk. “What’ve we got here? Geist? Is that you?”

  Icy dread and red-hot embarrassment sluiced through Geist’s body. What could she do? She couldn’t release Cross without revealing who and what she was to this man—but she couldn’t stay frozen like this forever either.

  The man waited, as though for an explanation.

  Then Cross sobbed, her voice shrill and loud. She shook against Geist and clung ever tighter, her face tucked away into Geist’s collarbone, stifling her sniffles. The man raised both eyebrows, his bravado waning.

  “Oh, shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

  Geist forced herself to glare through her flushed red face. “Tinker! Get the hell outta here!”

  “R-right.”

  Tinker fled the room, shutting the door and locking it with his magic as he went. After a long moment, Cross’s faux-sobbing transformed into genuine laughter. She snorted and stepped away, her own face rosy.

  “I can’t believe he just walked in here,” she said between chuckles.

  “Cross, what were you thinking? What if the commander gets word of this? He might have us both discharged—for indecent conduct.”

  “It already looked bad. I didn’t make it much worse.”

  “A woman crying in the arms of a naked soldier? Damn it all, I can already hear the rumors…”

  “I’m a member of the Ethereal Squadron,” Cross stated matter-of-factly. “They won’t lose me because of some idle tittle-tattle. We won’t make a fuss about it, and no one will reprimand us. Trust me. I’ve seen other nurses in more compromising positions. Much more compromising.”

  Geist allowed herself a single chuckle. “All right. Thank goodness for your quick thinking, then. Hand me a uniform before we have to do it all over again.”

  “But I haven’t finished the exam.”

  “Make something up,” Geist said as she slid off the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m done here.”

  I’m just shaken, she thought. Once I get assigned to a new team and get back to my routine I’ll be fine. No more close calls. Well, as long as Wilhelm didn’t see anything.

  Cross withdrew a smaller than average uniform from the tallest cabinet. The khaki outfit, folded neatly, had a fresh scent. Nothing like Geist’s old clothes—weeks of trenches and warfare had left them a tattered mess.

  Geist held up the garments and examined them with a sigh. Tailored for a man and ill-fitting. She slipped into the trousers. She gestured to Cross for medical bandages, and the other woman brought over two rolls. Geist proceeded to bind her chest all over again, quick and practiced in her motions.

  “If you need any more Cellucotton, you should tell me,” Cross said. “We run out of supplies constantly. One nurse used her petticoat as bandages the other day, God bless her heart, but I’ve stored some things away, in case you start bleeding.”

  “Thank you, Cross. I’ll let you know.”

  “Don’t dwell on your past battles, Florence. I tell the other soldiers the same things. Only fools trip on things already behind them.”

  “Where is the prisoner?” Geist asked as she pulled her coat tight and hooked each button with hasty motions. She finished dressing by securing her belt and fitting her cap atop her head.

  Cross sighed. “In recovery room three. Why?”

  “I need to see him.”

  Cross stared, her face emotionless, and Geist gave her a curt nod before walking up to the door and fumbling with the locked handle. Cross walked over and unlocked the heavy door with her key.

  “The commander called a debriefing,” she said. “Don’t take too long.”

  “I know. That’s where I’ll head afterward.” Geist stepped out of the room. “I’ll visit later.”

  Cross said nothing.

  Fort Belleville, like most forts Geist had been in, stood sturdy and proud, crafted with fine masonry. The narrow halls and small rooms weren’t designed for comfort or large crowds. Rooms had been converted depending on the need of the situation. Somehow, despite the chaos, the noncombatant personnel made everything work.

  She rounded a corner and jumped back. Tinker swung a heel off his foot and pushed away from the wall to stand straight in her path. A swagger to his stance, Tinker folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head.

  “Geist. You dog.”

  Caveat, another sorcerer stationed at Verdun, hovered behind Tinker without speaking. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his rotund frame a contrast to Tinker’s lithe and lanky stature. Geist shot Caveat a glare before returning her flustered gaze to Tinker. Did Caveat know? Had Tinker already told everyone? What would their commander say?

  Tinker snorted and shrugged. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us. I didn’t know Cross was your sweetheart. I won’t be gettin’ in the way.”

  “I wish I had a gal as swell as Cross,” Caveat muttered.

  “Hah! I have a girl waiting for me back home.” Tinker motioned to his full head of blond hair—a perfect slicked-back hairdo complete with stylish waves on one side of the part. Geist wondered where he found pomade out on the frontlines.

  Caveat pursed his lips and grumbled, patting his own bald head. “Women always fall for the quiet ones,” he said, his voice growing bolder. “You should read the letters
my sister wrote about the boys of her neighboring academy. Her fawning borders on obsession.”

  Tinker threw a long arm around Geist and pulled her down the hallway. “Isn’t that always the way? Women love the brooders. I guess it makes up for how short you are—eh, Geist?” Tinker tousled the top of Geist’s head, ruffling her cap.

  Geist gritted her teeth and kept her gaze straight ahead. At least they didn’t know.

  But there was still Wilhelm to deal with.

  “What’re you, five-six?” Tinker asked. “Five-seven? They have shoes to make you look taller, ya know. Fancy things. I’ve seen ’em for sale in the New York shops. All you need is a few inches and you’d be knockin’ the ladies dead.”

  “Don’t go givin’ him any more of your boneheaded advice,” Caveat said. “He already has Cross.”

  Tinker snapped his fingers. “Oh, it all makes sense now! You always visiting Cross? You’ve been sweethearts since you enlisted, haven’t you? You sly dog. I should’ve put it all together sooner.”

  “Huh. I thought Victory was sweet on Cross. Maybe he’s pining in secret.”

  “Victory’s a prick.” Tinker snorted. “That guy can stand to lose every now and then.”

  “Might want to keep that to yourself. He’s bound to be here for the debriefing.”

  “Ah, it doesn’t matter. What’s Victory going to do about it? Beat me at a game of cards?” Tinker stopped at an intersection in the hallway and pushed Geist forward. “Get on over to the commander’s office. We’ll meet you there.”

  Caveat nodded and followed Tinker down the northern hallway, his fidgeting creating as much noise as their boot steps.

  Nice talk, boys.

  With a sigh, she turned for the western hall and headed straight for recovery room three. All the recovery rooms had once been storage closets, but they had since been converted. Seeing as Wilhelm was a member of the Ethereal Squadron, though different than the sorcerers of Verdun, it didn’t surprise Geist that he would have his own special room.

  Once Geist found herself outside the door, she took in a deep breath. There’s no need to fear. He likely saw nothing.

  She turned the handle and entered.

  The tiny space, more cramped than the exam room, had no windows, a single cot, and a stand for linens. Wilhelm sat up on his cot, a thin blanket draped over his legs. He wore no tunic or shirt, his dog tags dangling from his neck and resting flat on the center of his chest.

  He glanced up when Geist stepped forward, his eyes narrowed and discerning.

  Geist cleared her throat and attempted to keep her voice deeper than usual. “I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

  “I remember,” Wilhelm interjected gruffly. “You’re the soldier who rescued me.”

  Soldier. Not woman.

  But not man either.

  “I came to ask you a few questions, Wilhelm,” she said.

  The mere mention of his name caused Wilhelm to tense. “William. My name is William.”

  Geist shook her head. “You’re German, aren’t you? I heard you speak on the front lines.”

  He threw back his blanket and stood, confident and uninjured in every regard. Geist crossed her arms over her chest as he stepped close. He was a good foot taller and she craned her head back to match his serious gaze.

  “I’m American,” he said.

  “Perhaps you’re American now,” Geist replied. “But I know a German when I see one.” I’ve met and lived with many back in Austria-Hungry. There’s no doubt in my mind. His accent is native. I’d bet my life on it.

  But then it struck her. If he had once been German, it meant he was a defector. Even the enemy lieutenant recognized Wilhelm during their escape. He had called Wilhelm a traitor. If that were the case, he wouldn’t want his nationality known. Many hated the Germans and Austro-Hungarians for declaring war on Serbia, and animosity ran deeper than the trenches that separated the soldiers. The other men might not trust a German defector. They might even still consider him an enemy.

  “What’s your code name?” Geist asked, her mind stewing.

  “Vergessenheit,” he replied.

  Vergessenheit—oblivion.

  Having a German code name didn’t mark him as German—Geist’s name was German in origin—but the name’s significance wasn’t lost on her.

  Geist exhaled. “Your identity is safe with me, Vergess. It doesn’t matter where you come from, so long as you’re with us now. You are with us… aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She found it ironic she would need to hide a secret for the man, especially when she entered the room fearing he knew hers. She held back a chuckle.

  “And what about you?” he asked in a rough whisper. “Do you always conduct yourself as a man?”

  Geist lost her breath.

  He knew.

  “I thought the British held themselves as gentlemen, but here they have women fighting their war for them.” Vergess glowered down at her. “Or do they not even know?”

  “Not everyone,” Geist managed, her lies stitching themselves together as her mind raced. “I—well, there are reasons—spies need to be versatile. So many have been caught already.”

  That wasn’t untrue. Female sorcerers, from dancers to singers, traveled between the warring countries, performing for all manner of soldiers and officers. They reported back their findings, but two had already been caught and executed for their treachery.

  “So the others here are aware?” Vergess asked, his tone implying he would check if she gave an affirmative answer.

  “No,” she said. “No one knows outside of General Pétain and Fort Belleville’s matron-in-chief. It has to be kept a secret—do you understand? You must never mention it to anyone or you’ll compromise my usefulness.”

  Geist knew Cross would play along if Vergess approached her, and it was unlikely that General Pétain, the head of the Verdun front operations, would have an audience with Vergess simply to confirm his stories.

  Vergess took a breath and tensed. “A spy-agent. In the Ethereal Squadron. I see.”

  A moment passed between them, and Vergess gave her the once-over, as if seeing her truly for the first time.

  The other soldiers never looked at her like they looked at wartime dame entertainers or the fair ladies they marched by during their trek to the trenches. It was easy to push aside carnal feelings when she considered her fellow Ethereal Squadron members all the same—soldiers carrying out a mission, no difference between them, everyone a cog in the bloody machine of war.

  But Vergess had changed that. He knew, and for the first time Geist saw him not as a fellow soldier, but as a man. His shirtlessness showcased a lean, muscled physique and broad shoulders. He held himself with a stiff posture and a cold presence, his body coiled, as though he could lash out with lethal force even from his compromised position. He was an impressive specimen, even among soldiers.

  Geist gritted her teeth, the heat in her veins angering her. She had kept her desires locked away for so long… To have them resurface now, in the middle of her frontlines assignment… it felt like weakness.

  “I don’t like the idea of women getting hurt in the war,” Vergess said, drawing Geist from her thoughts. “But you’ve done me more than one favor. I’ll keep your secret, as you’ve agreed to keep mine.”

  “You swear it?” Geist asked.

  Vergess huffed. “A soldier keeps his word.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me for not immediately trusting the word of a defector.”

  He caught his breath and clenched his fists. Geist could sense his rage, but it waned with each breath that followed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It must’ve been hard to leave your motherland.” Geist switched to German and continued, “I understand, I truly do.”

  She knew her accent had the tint of the south, specifically an Austro-Hungarian dialect. Although she didn’t care to share her history with others, she felt assuaging Vergess’s fear was worth
this small omission.

  “I—” Vergess began. Then he, too, switched to German and said, “You have my thanks.”

  Geist gave him a single nod. Unsure of what else could be said, she fumbled over her words. “Yes, well, th-thank you.”

  After another quiet moment of staring, Vergess turned away, his face a slight shade of red. He grabbed his tunic off the edge of the cot and threw it on, keeping his back to her at all times. He wore the American khaki uniform with a small 48-star American flag tied across the left sleeve.

  “I need to go,” he said, curt and in English. “Pardon me.”

  Vergess stepped around her, giving her a wide berth as though afraid to get too close, and opened the door. He cursed under his breath in German and then disappeared into the hall.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TEAM ASSESSMENTS

  THE COMMANDER’S OFFICE SERVED AS the field command for the Ethereal Squadron in Verdun, and Geist knew it well enough to find her way there without difficulty. She stopped at the door and narrowed her eyes.

  Blood stained the stones of the hall and the wood of the door, fresh enough to be noticeable, but old enough to have faded to near-black.

  Geist turned the handle and stepped in. To her surprise, the room already had several occupants. She glanced between them, half to see who they were and half to see if anyone was bleeding. Thirteen of the twenty Verdun Ethereal Squadron sorcerers returned her gaze. None of them had injuries to speak of, and Geist glanced back down at the floor to find that the trail of crimson stains continued all the way to their commander’s desk.

  Major Archibald Reese stood behind a solid piece of oak desk. His broad shoulders, half-moon gut, and well-kept beard set him apart from the rest—not to mention the crown-shaped insignias lining his uniform. Sorcerers in the squadron referred to him simply as “Commander,” but face-to-face, Geist fell back on formality.

  “Afternoon, sir,” she said with a salute.

  He returned her greeting—a casual gesture, more of a half-salute—and motioned for Geist to take her place among the ranks. The men of the room stood still and waiting. Smoke lingered in the air as a thick haze with each new cigarette. The windows remained shut for security purposes, cutting off all possibility for airflow. The room stunk of men’s sweat.